I Promised
by Bonnie Holmes
Summary: Sherlock Holmes says very little of his past. John Watson never questioned him on this. However, when his best friend starts becoming distant and Mycroft is no where to be found, John begins to wonder what had really happened all those years ago. Can he and Lestrade save the young detective's mind or will he suffocate in the arms of his suppressing past?
1. Mycroft's Failings

_**My first story so, yeah. Sorry if it's poor.**_

 ** _The narrative will get a bit intense at times so be warned. I don't particularly want to say how because it will kind of ruin the suspense but I will say in the header of the chapter._**

 ** _If you want to review it will be appreciated :)_**

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January 5, 2017.

…

There are many things I have come to regret in my life; things I have done, things I have said. Most are suppressible, as they were in-avoidable, however, when it comes to the concerns of my brother, I can say there is not a day that goes by in which I do not think about the pain and sorrow I have caused him. Sometimes I try to convince myself that he deserved what he got, that what I did was justifiable, but he didn't. Nobody deserves to be treated in such despicable a way, least of all my little brother.

The guilt I feel never subsides. Every time I look at him I can only see what I've done to him. If I had only been brave enough, been the brother I was supposed to be, then perhaps he wouldn't have ended up the lifeless shell of his former care-free, happy, self.

I feel I've failed him in every way; as a mentor, as a friend, and, most of all, as an older brother. This feeling had never been more prominent, in gut, chest and mind, as the night I stood alone on Waterloo Bridge having let him slip from my finger. I let my one and only treasure, and my one last chance, escape me. I feel as if I didn't even put up a fight, and for that I will be haunted for the rest of my days.

I do not deserve Sherlock Holmes. I can only hope that the countless pieces I have shattered my brother's debilitated soul into can be graphed and glued back together by the fidelity and unwavering support of his beloved friends and that they can forgive me for all I have done to him. I know he will never be the same, but I pray that he will be mended to a degree that he may find sanctuary and warmth in their company and embrace, and that he might, one day, be happy again. But above all else, I want him to find love… The love which had so cruelly been battered from his kind and joyful spirit, and the love I was never strong enough to provide.

…

Mycroft Holmes.


	2. A Familiar Face

_**Well, here's the second chapter. Thank You for all the kind reviews! You guys are wonderful :) I'm not sure about the quality of this one so tell me what you think. Reviews are always appreciated good or bad. Danny Boyle's 'Frankenstein' obviously wasn't at the National Theatre this year but I just used it for the purpose of the chapter. The view's not quite that vast either. It would have been in the 60's. It's still pretty wonderful though.**_

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July 21st, 2016.

...

Blonde sunlight filtered through the lush, green leaves of the maple trees that lined the banks of the Thames River; paint-splatter shadows on the pavements at their feet. The hushing foliage, coupled with the gentle lapping of glistening water, lulled the hyper city into a sedated haze. It was the height of summer and high above the busy streets of London, John Watson lazed contentedly in the fresh, gentle breeze that surrounded him. The view from top of The National Theatre was by far one of his favorites. From here, he could see from the archaic, lambent palaces of Westminster all the way down to the infamous Tower Hill and everywhere in-between. Below, the people milled about their business, seemingly oblivious to their surroundings and the lives of those who pass them by. On occasion, someone curious enough would look up and be greeted by city rooftops of glittering gold; radiant sunlight reflecting off of their glassy peaks. The Kingdom of Gold; that's what London was; the Best City in the World, and, to John Watson, home. With a cursory, bathetic glance at the glossy programme in his hands, the doctor turned round to see his friend, Sherlock Holmes, steepled in the door way of the terrace, gazing at him nonchalantly.  
'Enjoying yourself are we?' hummed the deep baritone voice.

John had taken Sherlock to the theatre on a whim. They'd gone to see 'Frankenstein', (something vaguely scientific), in an attempt to entertain the detective. He'd been out of work for weeks now. All the criminal minds of London had apparently taken a holiday with the rest of the country which left for an idyll minded detective; not to mention a frustrated flat mate and a rather livid landlady. He needed to be removed from the house before he shattered another mug or exploded another glass beaker. The last had nearly taken Mycroft's eye out. (Although part of me thinks it was not accidental.) He'd come round to express his concern in his brother's recent reckless behavior and suggested he find alternative methods of distraction. - Easier said than done.

The detective pushed himself away from the wall coming to stand beside his flatmate at the edge of the concrete overhang. Before him, John Watson was standing, smiling contentedly at the cloudless, airy blue sky that hung motionless above their heads. He looked out over the buzzing metropolis before drawing a steep breath and pushing it out between his two lips in a well to do, blasé manner which the doctor never cared for. 'Well, that was tedious.' he huffed.  
John snapped out of his floating state of mind, shooting his flat mate something of a nihilistic look. 'Tedious…? Your eyes were practically popping out of your head, Sherlock!'  
'Yes. They were popping out in appalment at the level of inconceivable stupidity I was witnessing.'

John gave his best friend a light punch to the shoulder. 'Shut up. You liked it really.'

Sherlock pulled a face of what could only be described as appalled. 'What?! No I didn't!'

'You so did.' smiled John.

'Why would I like something that is so unbelievably childish?' Sherlock protested.

'Because you're Sherlock and you are a child.'

Sherlock pulled a mildly exaggerated offended face. 'You take that back!'

'Nope,' John giggled. 'I won't take back what's true.'

'Take it back!'

'See! Only a child would argue like that!' John grinned as he watched his flat mate tried to suppress a smile that was gracing the corners of his lips. Sherlock was rarely ever genuinely happy. He smiles, but there's sadness there, in his eyes; an inexpressible sadness. Something people rarely care to notice and something he ever lets on to. He tries to conceal it; inevitably. To John Watson though, his best friend; he could never hide anything. This, this was a genuine smile and he was not about to let it go.

'You see that bench down there.' He indicated to it with a nod of his head. 'I bet I could get to it quicker than you.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes before shoving his hands in his pockets beginning to walk away. 'You know that this is a false concept.'

'Last one to the river's paying for the cab fare!'

Sherlock pivoted on his heels. 'Did you not hear me?'

The ex-soldier gave a playful shrug.

'Really, John, you have far too much faith in your own, frankly, non-existent abilities. That or you are designing a situation in which I will defaultly win. Either way, the odds are not in our favour.

'On your marks…'

Sherlock tilted his head in to the side in exasperence. 'You can't be serious.'

'Get set…'

'Watson- '

'-Go!'

John took off down the nearest flight of angular stairs with a sharp whistle. Sherlock lent over the balcony shouting after him. 'Now look who's a child!' he sneered.

The doctor giggled out loud, calling amusedly to the wind, 'A child who's not paying the bill!'

Sherlock shook his head disapprovingly, shouting back in vitriolic tone, 'I'm not doing this, John!'

…

The bounding pair slammed into the cast metal railings at the bank's edge, Sherlock almost over the railing and into the river.

'I won!' John exclaimed, breathlessly.'I won.'

' _No fair!'_ Sherlock cried. 'You had a head start!'

John clung to the cold metallic railing in a fit of laughter.

Sherlock frowned irritably.'What?'

John shook his head gasping for air.

'What…? What, John? What is it?!'

'See?' he said catching his breath. 'You are a five year old!'

Sherlock tried to look stern but after of few seconds of looking at his friend's bright, smug face, his face too broke into a wide smile and the pair burst into giggles again.

'Come on,' John sighed smiling. 'Let's go home.' .

...

When the pair fell through the door of 221B it was the early hours of the evening. The sun had dipped below the horizon and darkness had descended upon the city. All was quiet as they began to ascend the shadowy staircase to there flat. Their attention was caught, however, when the door to their landlady's flat opened, flooding the hallway in a warm, apricot light. They turned to see Mrs Hudson leaning out of the door way, waving them down to her.

'Boys! A man, a detective or something, from Scotland Yard came by to see you. I said he could wait upstairs for you to come back because you weren't here.'

Sherlock barely stayed long enough to finish hearing the gently women's words before he bolted up the staircase.

'Jesus, Sherlock! Slow down!' John called after him. 'Thank you, Mrs Hudson.' He made to go up after his flat mate when he was stopped again.

'You two haven't been up to anything mischievous, have you?'

'No, Mrs Hudson. Don't worry. Everything's fine. Or…' He glanced back upstairs. 'At least it will be.'

'I do try not to worry, dear, but, you know what he's like. Do keep an eye on him, won't you?'

'Of course.' he nodded. And with that he dashed upstairs.

John had barely made it through the door of the motley muddled flat when his friend rushed over to him, seizing him by the shoulders with an excited cry.

'Murder, John!' he exclaimed. 'A red thread lead to a man found dead with severe blows to the head!'

'What?!' John was somewhat overwhelmed by his friend's bounding energy.

'I said, "A red thread lead to a man found dead with severe blows the head!"'

'I know what you said! Why are you rhyming?'

'Because it's a _rhyme crime_ , John!'

John looked over his shoulder to the face of a sympathetic looking Lestrade.

'He's not explaining himself very well. Basically, a man was found dead today in his office by his secretary. She got to work this morning and found a red piece of ribbon tied to the draw handle of her desk. She followed the string and it lead to the body of her, now deceased, boss. It's a weird one so we wanted a second opinion.'

'I'm the second opinion, John!'

'I know, Sherlock.' John patronized, nodding his head. 'You going to let me go now?'

'Oh, yes. Sorry.' Sherlock quickly shoved his hands into his coat pockets, smiling apologetically. He turned back to Lestrade and indicated to the door with his head. 'Lead the way.'

…

Sherlock had, thankfully, calmed down a bit in the cab ride across town. Reverting back into his mind by a degree, the detective was perceptibly analyzing the circumstance of the situation pre-described by Lestrade. It had begun to rain by the time they'd arrived at the scene. The sky above was no longer clear but raked over with hapless, grey clouds. Small puddles had accumulated on the surfaces of the thoroughfare reflecting the neighboring, mottled lights, though they were blurred by the repetitive spit spotting downfall. Anderson, leaning against the stone wall of the porch, threw Sherlock a daring look as Lestrade led the pair past the front door of the posh, white bricked Victorian terrace house. Thankfully, Sherlock hadn't taken much notice.

Upstairs, in the office of the mentioned secretary, John watched the consultant carefully as his young, curiosity eyes seemed to caper across the crime scene before him, reeling in information strung to room. He stalked around the women's desk. It was almost animalistic when observe; like a creature circling unsuspecting prey. His doubtless blue eyes flickered over her desk before landing on the red ribbon tide the draw.

John Watson could not certain, but the something in the detective's demeanor seemed to falter. It was so fleeting, so brief, that you'd likely say it never even happened but John Watson saw these things in Sherlock Holmes. Before he could say anything though, the consultant's stare had hardened again, the thought seemingly shaken from his head.

The detective gently picked up the ribbon, letting it thread through his fingers. He sniffed it before pulling more of the thread towards him. Letting it be his guide, Sherlock strolled from the room. Lestrade and John followed attentively.

The velvety material led them down a rather ornate corridor adorned with detailed paintings and delicate looking vases. They ended up at a white door. With a gentle nudge, Sherlock pushed the door open and stepped inside. His darting, deducing eyes became motionless, fixated on something John Watson could not yet see. The pair waited a moment but the detective had yet to move any further into the room. 'Sherlock, are you gonna-?'

The consultant gave no sign of acknowledgement. John glanced, confused, at Greg from the corner of his eye. '…Sherlock?'

'Sherlock, mate? Are you gonna move so we can, you know, get in?'

All was silent. The crimson ribbon fell from his fingertips. John and Lestrade shot at each other with a new found concern.

The doctor took a step forward. 'Sherlock, are you alright?'

Silence... John was beginning to feel a slight sense of unease. He maneuvered himself though the gap between the door frame and his best friend. He peered up into the detective's face. He'd dropped numerous shades. His healthy glowing skin had turned a ghostly white. His eyes were focused on the ground a meter or so from his feet, shifting in a slight side to side manner. His eyebrows were draw together, as if confused. John turned to see what the detective was staring at.

A man of average height lay on the floor a few feet ahead of him. He was not a man of youth but not of age. His lifeless body wore a tailored suit of deep, navy blue, once probably crease-less, now a crinkled mess. He wore the face of death: Pale and inert. Blue, meaningless eyes gazed hollowly at the ceiling above. John grimaced as his eyes fell upon the man's short, light brown, curls. They clung to his head and face, soaked in copper red. An image of Sherlock appeared in his head. Sherlock on the bloodied pavement of St. Bart's hospital _._ The doctor quickly shook the thought away.

'Sherlock, look at me.'

It took a moment, but the consultant's glassy, blue eye slowly came upwards. They were deep. Haunted. Utterly, utterly terrified.

This didn't make sense. Sherlock had been to countless crime scenes and barely batted an eyelid. This was tame compared to what he usually has to deal with. (If you could call any murder tame.) Instinctively, John's fingers closed around Sherlock's nimble wrist. His pulse was rather rapid. _Had he taken something?_ He couldn't of; he'd been with the doctor all day.

Sherlock suddenly pitched forward, snapping John from his thoughts. 'Whoa!' John swiftly put both his hands to the detective's shoulders to brace him. 'Just take it easy for me, Sherlock.'

'Shall I get a chair?' Greg hastily imputed.

'Please.' John replied, trying to fore bay the sense of urgency rising in his voice.

John looked back up into Sherlock face. His eyes were closed. He'd seemed even paler than he was before, if that were even possible.

'Just take a couple of deep breaths for me, Sherlock. It's going to be okay.'

Greg hastily re-entered the room. _'Chair!'_

'Thank you.'

John sat Sherlock down. The Doctor lowered himself down to the detective's level.

'Sherlock, what happened? Are you feeling okay?'

The detective looked up into John's eyes. 'I-' His face crumpled _'Oh, God…'_ Sherlock's head dropped to John's shoulder, a shuddery breath hitching in his throat.

' _That's my brother…'_


	3. A Message

**Sorry it's been ... A month :/ I had to get a lot of work done before the holidays. But non of that matter because of two very rare, important words. SHERLOCK. SPECIAL. I won't dwell on it because I can, will and have talk about it for hours so I'll just leave it at AMAZING! I'm not sure about the quality or the direction of this one but I need to post something so here it is. Reviews are always welcome :)**

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 _'That's my brother...'_

...

Lestrade chocked. _'What?!'_

John held his breath. He glanced over his shoulder at the body strewed across the floor. 'Sherlock, what do you mean? That's not your brother. That's not Mycroft.'

 _No response came…_

The Doctor struggled to keep his balance with the young detective's weight pressing down upon him. 'Sherlock…? Sherlock, can you hear me?'

 _Still nothing…_

John's eyebrows knitted in concern. 'Sherlock, are you feeling alright?' He turned his gaze upon the DI who had taken a few steps forward from the doorway. He was displaying a face of equal worry. 'I think he's in shock...'

'So am I…What- I don't understand?'

'Nor do I.' John lifted his friend from his shoulder. His breath caught in his throat.

'… _Sherlock.'_ The detective was pallid; deathly so. John felt a wave of anguish stab to his chest as he watch listless tears drop silently down Sherlock's crumpled face. His cautious hand found its way to his flatmate's forehead. 'Sherlock, can you hear me?'

 _Nothing…_

'Has he-?'

John looked to Lestrade again. The DI nodded towards his arm. 'You know…'

John understood what he meant and shook mournfully. _If only._

Right now, John wished he had; wished the detective had taken some sort of drug because the idea that Sherlock's beautiful mind was coming apart at the seams all on its own was far scarier concept. If it were drugs, at least he'd have some idea of how to help him.

The doctor was suddenly pulled from his thoughts again by Lestrade's soft whisper.

' _John.'_

He pulled his gaze from his patient, directing it upward.

'You need to stop Sherlock from biting his lip otherwise his teeth are gonna go right through it.'

John looked back to the detective. Lestrade was right. Sherlock was biting hard into his bottom lip. Copper was already beginning to bead along the tender flesh. He took his hand from the detective's forehead, fingers moving beneath his chin. Sherlock flinched at the contact.

' _Shhh,_ it's alright. _'_ he whispered. 'It's only me.' John could feel his hand become damp as the young detective's tears fell to his palm. 'It's okay. Just take deep breaths.' Gently, John brought his fingers to the young man's bottom lip. 'Sherlock, if you can hear what I'm saying, you need stop biting into your lip for me?'

Greg knelt down next to John. He placed a gentle hand on the detective's forearm. 'Sherlock, mate, you need to stop. You're going to hurt yourself. Just take it easy, okay?'

The Inspector glanced towards John. For the first time in his life, he thought the doctor truly looked lost. Greg turned back to Sherlock, gripping his arm. 'Just start counting backwards in your head in multiples of seven. It will be alright.' Sherlock managed a stiff nod.

' _Good-idea._ ' John breathed, almost dumbly. He nodded to Lestrade. 'Thank you.'

 _Christ, why didn't I think of that?!_

John brushed the damp, raven curls from the detective's face. 'Now, Sherlock, can you explain what you mean? I-…We don't understand.'

Sherlock suddenly sat up. 'Seven...?' He muttered the number several time looking distantly across the room.

Looking back, John would have now described his inflection as carrying realisation. At the time, however, he had just been relieved the detective had managed to say something and hadn't thought anything of it. He suddenly stood up. To John's amazement, all traces pain and anguish he'd seen moments ago had vanished. The doctor tried to stop the consultant from getting up but his hands were waved thoughtlessly away. John looked to Lestrade with great confusion. Lestrade however didn't notice this look as he was too busy eyeing Sherlock suspiciously as he stalked towards the desk. John wandered warily behind his friend, afraid he was going to blackout or fall over. 'Sherlock, perhaps you should go home,' he piped. 'You don't look to good.'

The detective shook his head, pulling a draw out from the table then slowly walking around to the body on the ground.

'Sherlock, I think John's right. You're not well.'

The younger of the detectives crouched down, pulling his magnifying lens from his pocket. 'Male,' came his deep, baritone voice. 'Age: Forty-four. Upper-Middle class. Civil servant. Conducts work of a more surreptitious nature than most.' Sherlock's hand floated from the top of gentleman's head down to his waist band. He pulled back sides of the man's jacket. His eyes narrowed. In the breast pocket of the coat, _was an envelope...?_ Tilting his head sideways, he pulled the note out, eyes flittering over the seal.

 _Linen effect. 250gsm._

His finger followed the ridge of the card until it reached the top corner. It was then, when he turned it over, that his heart stopped. The paper nearly slipped from his fingers. There, inscribed on the front of the cream coloured parchment,

 _Sherlock ._

No. No, it couldn't be. _That handwriting…._

He felt sick. Faint. This was all a nightmare. Some hideous dream and any minute now he was going to wake up back in his flat on the sofa, probably with some needle hanging out of his arm that he would have previously wanted to be there and later regret but that would be, anything would be, better than this truth. This, this _couldn't_ be real.

'…Sherlock?'

Sherlock was snapped from his manic run of thoughts. '…What?'

'I said, "Are you sure you're feeling alright?" You look a really pale.'

The detective hastily tucked the envelope into his pocket and jumped up.

'As I said before, John, I'm fine.'

John eyed the detective. He hadn't said that before. He'd barely said anything before. 'Okay,' he murmured sceptically. 'If you're sure.'

Sherlock could tell by his friend's accuserary tone that that was the opposite of what he was thinking. He had to get a grip. He gave John what he hoped was a reassuring glance before turning to Lestrade. 'The head wound on his left side was not the cause of death. If you pull back collar, seven distinct finger marks. Strangulation. By the position of the body, the head injury was sustained when the murder dropped victim after they passed out. And as for the ribbon,' Sherlock pointed to the string of red trailing across the floor. 'It's a message.'

'A message?!' Lestrade exclaimed. 'A message for who?'

'Frankly, I'm surprised Anderson couldn't work this one out.'

'Sherlock? A message for who?'

'The victim was expecting the murderer. There is a loaded gun in the top draw of his desk but the fact he didn't get it out shows that there was reservations about using it but in his line of work he wouldn't be afraid of any sort of firearm. Sentiment then. Someone the victim's known for a very long time.'

'So who are we looking for?' Lestrade quickly cut in.

Sherlock paused. John watched as the detective's eyes flitted between the body on the floor and his pocket.

'We're looking for young man, in his early thirties. About 5'11., mid-range walking pace and size ten feet. Motive? Same lovers. Now, if you'd excuse me.' Sherlock sauntered for the door.

'Sherlock, wait a second.'

'Really, Lestrade, this is barley scraping a five. It would be very much appreciated if you didn't waste my time.' And with that, he strode from the room.

Lestrade ran a hand through his silver hair with a sigh. 'What was all that about?'

John stared at the warm orange light streaming in through the nearby window, silhouetted on the darkened office floor. 'I don't know.' he hummed. 'And that frightens me.'

...

Sherlock stumbled out into the pouring rain and sped off down the shinning, cobblestone street, running without a second glance to the buildings deminishing behind him. He wrapped his coat around his torso to protect him against the cool, damp evening air that now grasped at his flesh with its icy fingers. He had to get away from here.

 _This couldn't be real. It just couldn't be._

The detective continued at this cursory rate, tripping over his own feet, until his lungs felt as if they were burning from the inside out. He darted away from the main street, ducking into a nearby alley. He stumbled to the floor, wet grit lodging in his palms. Anger suddenly washed over him. Pressing his hands to his ears, the detective doubled over, screaming as loud as he could until his head got light from the lack of oxygen. Sherlock's eyes closed as he sank back against one of the red, parallel walls lining the narrow passage. Drawing in an unsteady breath, the consultant turned his jaded gaze to the dark, navy sky above his head. He stared up at the blackness, catching his breath. Tonight was impossible. He was high: that's the only logical explanation. John was going to kill him when he woke up. It was no less than he deserved. The detective's head slowly sank to his drawn up knees, heavy with heady fatigue. Now all there was left to do was pray for everything to disappear and dissolve.

" _Don't pray to God, Sherlock; he won't talk back."_

He wasn't sure how long he stayed like this, or how long he'd even been outside but the water was beginning to weigh down his raven curls, droplets falling from his red nose and satin eyelashes. _Not asleep then.._. he thought disappointedly. As the plague-like memories of the evening's events slowly filtered back to him, the consultant was quick to decided that if he wasn't high, _he needed to be_.

 _No! Stop it! I already told you - get a grip!_

He put his hand inside his coat pocket, convincing himself that he wasn't searching for his wallet. His hand came to rest on the parchment he'd placed in there earlier. The warmth reminded Sherlock of how cold his fingers were. The detective pulled the envelope from the pocket. He looked down at it, watching the rain splatter and discolour the paper; eyebrows narrowing as a drop splashed onto the scrawl of his name causing the black ink to smudge and roll its way down the page.- _That handwriting; I'd never forget it._

Sherlock pressed his pallid hands to his face, breathing in deeply. _'Christ, what have I done?'_

* * *

 ** _Oh, the suspense! Review? Go on, you know you want to ;)_**


	4. Yours, always

22nd July, 2016.

…

 _'Dearest William,_

 _I glad to see you found my note. I had no doubt that you would. Bright as ever. Built yourself quite the pretty little reputation now, haven't you. I would go as far as to say I'm proud._

 _I do hope that you weren't too cut up by your little surprise. However, if I remember rightly, you two never were all that close. How could you be...? He was never around._

 _Speaking of elders; how's Mycroft these days? It's been an age. Perhaps I shall go and pay him a visit... I'd very much like to see you again, Sherlock. Have you made any friends yet? Bet you look different now. All grown up._

 _Did you get the little joke with the ribbon? I always did prefer the personal touch._

 _Don't blame yourself, by the way. You and I both know he had it coming for a long time._

 _Yours, always…'_

…

Sherlock's shaking hands messily folded the letter in half. This was the sixth time he had read the scribble and each time he tried to slap himself awake convinced he was still dreaming. He'd walked all night through the dampened, dreary streets of London. He couldn't sleep. He didn't want to sleep. His mind was cluttered with doubtful lies he'd tried to convince himself with to replace the alternative truth. And now, he stood upon the centre Westminster Bridge in lemon lamplight, a new day breaking before him.

The warmth and light of the rising summer sun had begun to burn away the covering clouds to reveal a dim, pink streaked sky. The charcoal coloured, sodden streets, once empty, slowly began to fill and filter bright red buses and barren black cabs; ingratiated by the lack-lustred faces of the late-nighted Londoner, dragging their feet tiredly to the tedium commonly referred to as work.

The heavy, reverberating toll of Big Ben brought Sherlock's iridescent eyes to its face. It was 'half past five' in the morning. He'd been out for seven hours and the fatigue was being to show in his countenance. Shivering slightly in the caress of the morning mist, Sherlock pulled his damp coat across his angular frame and struck off in a stride to the north bank.

He walked its edge, under an avenue of thick, green, lushly adorned maples. Breathing deeply, Sherlock allowed the smile of the odd optimistic passing cyclist, and the gentle hush of lapping water, lull his anxious temperament. Clean, chilly air filled his lungs; reminding him how desperately he need a cigarette. John had hidden all of his...Again.

He crossed over the Bank's duel lane through a small arch, the young detective turned left into Downing Street. His pacing feet came to rest outside the shinnied black door of number 5. He paused for a moment, staring at the brass knocker. Perhaps he was over reacting. Maybe he was just mistaken earlier, I mean, he has been considerably sleep deprived for quite some time now. It was all probably just a trick of the mind; all of this, just some sort of wind up by a smart-arsed murder who is trying to-

'Sherlock?'

The young detective jumped, head whipping round in surprise. Somewhat to his relief, he was confronted with his elder brother's deucing, green eyes.

'Hello, little brother. For what do I owe this pleasure? I do hope you weren't planning in breaking into my office again, you know how that ended last time.'

'That was not my fault.' Sherlock quipped. 'Besides, it was of national importance.'

'Doctor Watson's middle name was not of national importance.'

'It could have been.'

With a sigh, Mycroft, in his champagne, three piece suit, gazed Sherlock over from head to toe. 'Why are you here?'

'Just thought I'd pop by and say hi.'

Mycroft smiled sardonically. 'Now, brother mine, we both know that's not strictly true.'

'Why couldn't it be?'

'Because you're a Holmes and we don't "pop by," that would be verging on sentiment. No, something's happened. What's happened, Sherlock?'

'Nothing.'

Mycroft tilted his head sideways, expelling a loud breath. 'Sherlock, you're hesitating on my office doorstep at thirty-seven minutes past five in the morning. It hasn't rained in two and a quarter hours yet you're soaked to the skin. You haven't been home all night. Your bottom lip is split and your eyes are red raw not to mention your shaking hands. I would have hedged my bets on you relapsing if it we're not for the face in the past three minutes you and I have been standing here your eyes have flickered down to that piece of paper.' He referenced to Sherlock's right pocket with the tip of his umbrella. Sherlock looked down unknowingly.

'You've folded and unfolded it no less than five times...Let's leave the lies for John, shall we?'

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'Sherlock-'

'-And it was six times not five.'

'Sherlock, stop.'

There was a hollow pause. Sherlock peered up into his brothers eyes. '…He's dead.'

Mycroft was motionless. '…What?'

'Sherri…He's dead.' Sherlock's voice faltered him momentarily but he was quick to get a hold of it. 'Murdered in the early hours of yesterday morning.'

'Is that what you wanted to tell me? Is that what was in the letter? – Sherlock?'

Sherlock glanced towards the ground. 'Yes.' After a moment, he turned, hastening his way back to the river. He shouldn't have come here. Mycroft took a step forward, grasping his brother's arm. 'Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I-'

'Don't touch me!' The young detective suddenly screamed, pulling back.

Mycroft put his hand down; the expression on his face turning to one of concern.

Sherlock tried to bite back tear threating to spill down his face. 'I don't- want you to touch me.' he hissed.

Mycroft expression became lopsided. 'Sherlock, I understand how your feeling-'

'No, you don't!'

'Sherlock-'

'How could you possibly know?'

Mycroft reached for his younger brother's arm again. Sherlock pulled away. 'Just leave me alone, Mycroft!' He stormed back up towards the main road. 'If you want the details contact Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Other than that, stay away from me!'

…

'I'm sure he'll be back soon, dear.'

'I know, I know. I'm just worried.' John paced back and forth across the red worn floors of 221B and had been doing so for the past forty minutes, biting his lip restlessly. 'I mean what if he's blacked out or something?'

Mrs Hudson gave the Doctor a warm smile. 'I'll go make you that cup of tea. Don't worry, John, he'll be alright. He's Sherlock.' The landlady departed, hurrying off down to her flat.

'Exactly. That's what worries me.' He muttered under his breath, looking to the windows overlooking the murky, grey street below. The sun was coming up, fingers of light beginning to curl their way around the spiring rooftops. John collapsed onto his armchair with a sigh.

He'd left Lestrade alone at the crime scene not long after eleven that evening, catching a cab back to the flat on Baker Street. He'd ascended the cool, wooden steps to find their cozy rooms ominously empty. Since then he'd spent the night wandering the cold, dark, damp streets of London in fruitless search of his best friend. It had been about five o'clock by the time John had returned to 221B, a sense of dread rising in his chest. He'd hoped in that time Sherlock would have come back or at least got in contact with him but he hadn't. John closed his eyes, running a hand through his damp hair. 'Come on, Sherlock. Come home.'

Suddenly, as if an exterior force had been listening, John heard the front door slam. His eyes sprang open. 'Sherlock?!' he called out, swiftly getting to his feet. He leaped across the chaotic room into the hallway. Leaning over the banister, the soldier let out a great sigh of relief as before him stood his sodden, paled detective. 'Hey,' he breathed. 'Are you okay?'

'Fine.' Sherlock's swept past John into the dimly lit kitchen. John watched hesitantly as his flatmate removed his trailing Belstaff coat, draping it across the back of one of the wooden table chairs. He moved towards the counter top, picking up a mug. John moved to his flatmate's side. 'Sherlock.'

'I'm fine.'

'Sherlock.'

'I'm fine, John.'

'Sherlock!'

The detective ignored him, filling the cup with water.

John stepped in front of him. 'Sherlock, stop.' He removed the ceramic from his flat mate hands, almost slamming down onto the counter top with a thin, dull thud. 'Sherlock, I want you to actually look at me when you tell me you're alright because right now you're in your generic, "Say what will make John happy and leave me alone" mode, and from what I saw earlier, Sherlock, I don't think that's the truth.'

Sherlock looked out of the window in front of him before casting his eyes to the ground. 'I'm fine, John.' He slid the mug from the counter and walked off down the gloomy, shadowed corridor. John pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh as he heard his bedroom door close with a slam. Getting out his laptop, the doctor moved aside some of his flatmate's chemical experiments, sat heavily down at the kitchen table and began to type.

* * *

 _ **Review? Review? Review? Good or bad; I'd love to hear what you think. :)**_


	5. The Photograph

Sherlock slammed his bedroom door shut. In the early morning sunlight, that streamed through the gap in the curtains, floated dust. Slow, lifeless, moving particles. He fell back against the varnished wood and slipped listlessly to the floor. His head came to rest heavily atop his knees with a weighty sigh. He hated lying to, John, hated it. But he couldn't tell him what had happened. He can't be involved. The detective pressed the heel of his palms to his eyes with a frustrated exclamation.

 _Why?! After everything, why now?_

His head came up, resting slackly on the door at his back. He cast his eyes across the room in front of him. It was a mess. Conical flasks and glass beakers littered every surface with the occasional moulded mug of forgotten tea nestled between. Shirts and socks scattered the trampled carpet, bed sheets lying askew. His eyes, however, were drawn most to his battered chest of wooden draws standing on the opposite side of the room. Almost as if hypnotized, Sherlock drew himself up to his full height stalking across the floor to it. His pales fingers closed around the handles of the top draw, slowly pulling it open. Pushing aside the contents; books, maps and post-it notes; he pulled loosely at the lining, revealing a multitude of objects: Needles. An envelope. A paring knife, a vile of morphine, a Blackberry. It was the photo that was of Sherlock's interest, though. He picked up the print, holding it between his finger tips.

The image depicted three boys, all of relative likeness, standing shoulder to shoulder in weightless spring air. Sherlock knew them all too well and yet all too little. He crossed the threshold again, snatching the white bed covers from the floor. He pulled the material around his shoulders and sunk forth to the floor into the corner of the room.

The detective gazed upon the picture with mournful eyes. This was taken when he was no more than five, when it all didn't seem so bad. Him and his brothers: Sherrinford on the right and Mycroft on the left. Their attire was of class but was not worn so. Bowties hung loosely around necks. Trousers were muddied at the hem and shirt sleeves were rolled up. They had been playing beneath the setting sun in the grounds of their father's sister's palatial home. It was the first evening of her married life and she had stood smiling next to her husband in her effusively flowered gardens as he stared down the lens of a Polaroid camera at the boys that clung to each other in contented happiness.

…

 _'Okay…Hold it…Perfect!'_

 _Mycroft and Sherrinford clapped their hands on one another's shoulders laughing. Sherlock was standing ramrod straight, not unlike a soldier, a wide grin on his small face._

 _His aunt smiled softly. 'Sherlock, you can move now.'_

 _'Oh.' the child blushed._

 _Sherrinford wrapped his long arms wrapped around his little brother. 'You're so silly, Shirley!'_

 _Sherlock screamed excitedly as his older brother spun him avidly in the air. Mycroft was bent double in fitted giggles._

 _'What you laughing at, Millie?' teased Sherrinford. He set Sherlock down on the ground before lunging for Mycroft's legs. He pulled them out from beneath him making him fall to the grass. Sherrinford pinned his younger brother to the ground with his knees, tickling him feverishly. Mycroft wriggled wildly. 'Stop!' He giggled. 'I can't breathe.'_

 _Sherlock ran over, jumping between them. 'You'll never take my brother, Sinister Sherri!'_

 _'Captain Sherlock!' cried the middle child. 'Thank goodness! Please save me!'_

 _Everyone scrambled to their feet. Sherrinford wrapped a scrawny arm around Mycroft's shoulders with a growl, pulling him in tight. 'You'll never get him back, never!'_

 _'Release him, now!' Sherlock cried. 'Or the last thing you will ever see will be the flash of my sword before your eyes.'_

 _'No. Cap' in, Sherlock! Have mercy!'_

 _'Malicious Mycroft Holmes. Now.'_

 _Sherrinford released Mycroft with a shove. 'Fine. You win this time. But this won't be the last you see of me!'_

 _'I'll be waiting!' cried the five year old._

 _'Well done, Shirley.' said Mycroft, 'You saved me.' A malicious smile suddenly spanned his face. 'But the question is who's going to save you?!'_

 _The two elder brothers grinned at each other wickedly. Sherlock's eyes widened. He tried to dash for the house but found two pairs of arms latch around his torso._

 _'Got ya!' the two cried._

 _'No. No!' screamed the small child. 'A trap. A dastardly trap!'_

 _'Now we have you there's only one thing for it!' snarled Sherrinford. 'Pirate Sherlock Holmes of the high seas, I hear by sentence you a death by hugging.'_

 _And with that both brothers encased Sherlock, squeezing him tightly. They all fell to the floor twittering loudly._

 _'Sherlock?'_

 _The child looked up._

 _'Here you go.' His uncle held out a glossy piece of paper towards him. Sherlock took it carefully. It was the picture that had been taken a few moments ago._

 _'Wow! Thank you, Uncle Simon! And thank you Aunt Lucy!' he called to her, waving the picture in the air._

 _'Your quite welcome, dear.' she sung back._

 _Sherlock flopped back down to the ground between his brothers. 'This has been the best-est day ever!' He hugged the picture close to him. 'I'm gonna keep this forever!'_

 _Mycroft smiled sweetly. 'Love you always, Locky.'_

 _'Always…?' he hummed._

 _There was a soft silence. It was as if time had stopped and in the fresh evening's air, as dandelion seeds danced weightlessly in the dying rays of tender, apricot sunlight, that everything seemed perfect, as if nothing could ever go wrong or be wrong again._

 _'Always.' Sherrinford whispered ._

 _…_

Sherlock was fetched from his now diminishing day dreams by the shrill of his mobile phone. He lifted his head heavily from where it had been resting on the wall beside him. He untangled his arm from the sheets surrounding him. He reached into his trouser pocket, pulling the device out and glancing at its screen.

Lestrade.

The detective gave and exasperated sigh. He pressed the receiver and placed the phone to his ear. 'What?' He snapped irritably.

'Sherlock. I have another case down at the station and it's got us all a bit stumped.'

'Oh. There's a surprise.' Sherlock drooled sarcastically.

'Sherlock!' came the DI's scolding tone. 'Will you help or not?'

Sherlock sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and fore finger. 'I'll be right down.'

…

John's Blog's:

 _Dear Readers…_

 _I saw something last night and… I'm not sure how to describe it because… I'm not sure what it was that I saw. He's going to hate me for saying this but I need to get it out because I just need to make sense of it all. Sherlock and I, we were invited to a crime scene. First one in months, well, it felt like months. It was only weeks in reality._

 _The Red Ribbon Murder._

 _Lincoln Inn, just north of Temple, in a grand, old office house a secretary came into work to find a long, crimson red ribbon tied to the draw handle of her desk. She followed it through the building, down a corridor to the door of her boss's office. Walking inside, she found him dead. Naturally the police were called and the police being out of their depth, we were summoned._

 _Sherlock was as perceptive and audacious as ever, that was until we were confronted with the body itself. The detective had stopped in his tracks. He stared at the ground before him. He'd gone deathly pale and when upon inquiring what was wrong I received no reply. I squeezed past him in concern. Before me was the victim lying beside a desk with a blooded head. This spiked my curiosity. This was a tame murder (if there is such a thing) in comparison to some of the gruesome dealing Holmes and I have seen and yet, Sherlock's knees looked like they were going to fall from beneath him. My thoughts then led me to believe he was ill but when he let out a broken sob and… and tears, streamed from his diamond, pallid eyes, I found myself at a sudden loss. Crying is something I've only seen from Sherlock in attempt to extract information from people. Always an act but, this wasn't. This wasn't an act. I didn't know what to do but as quick as the breakdown had occurred it disappeared again. Sherlock reeled off his deductions and left leaving myself and Scotland Yard quite speechless._

 _He didn't return home until early this morning, soaked through and fatigued. He'd been out all night. I tried to talk to him but he ignored me repeatedly telling me he was fine but… I can't believe that because my 'sociopathic', clinical, arse of a friend was sobbing his heart out into my shoulder and I-'_

John slammed the lid of his laptop shut with an exclamation of frustration.

 _Why does he have to be such a stubborn bastard?!_

He looked up to see a cup of tea resting opposite him on the table.

'You've let it go cold, dear.' cooed Mrs Hudson from the living room. John's ears followed the voice until his eyes fell upon his landlady straightening out the cushions on the sofa.

'You're turning into him you are, sitting engrossed on a computer, forgetting there's a world going on around you.'

'Sorry, I was just thinking about things.'

'I'm glad to see he came home. I said everything would be alright, didn't I?'

'Yes.' John took a swig of the cold tea. 'I better check on him.' He got up, walking toward the connecting corridor when he was stopped by Mrs Hudson's chirping voice.

'Oh, you won't find him there, love. He's gone out.'

'Out?'

'Yes. Something about a teenager and arbalest.'

'Did he say where?' John grabbed his jacket from the nearby hat stand.

'No.'

'Okay.' Pocketing his phone, the doctor headed to the door. 'Thanks for the tea Mrs. Hudson.' he called as he began descending the stairs.

'That's perfectly alright; dear, but I didn't make it.'

John stopped mid –step with furrowed eyebrows. 'Then who did?'

...

Sherlock jumped up the steps of the New Scotland Yard building in twos. Normally this would have been considered a surge of palpable energy but now more of a tugging need to get this over and done with. The detective schmoozed through the reception doors, barley acknowledging the receptionist before striding off down the long, clinical corridors.

Sherlock threw Lestrade's office door open. 'This better be important.'

* * *

 _ **Aww, I feel**_ _**so sorry for John sometime. He's**_ _**just one of there kind people who just wants the best for those he loves. Got something you'd like to say? Got a theory? - REVIEW! Please ;)**_


	6. Re-Awoken Memories

_1985_

 _It was a cool February's night. The sky resembled a sheet of velvet, a deep indigo, sweeping across the empyrean; littered specks of white light. The light of distant stars. A gentle breeze caressed the tree tops, trying to entice the fresh green leaves out of their tightly sealed buds. A crystal frost was beginning to settle upon the finely tipped blades of grass; ice reflecting the polished light of the iridescent moon._

 _From his window, a young Mycroft Holmes could see a slight fox scuttling across the large expanse of lawn situated at the front of the house. He eyed the creature as it pointed nosed scuffed along the ground, in search of a clue that would point him in the direction of his next meal. Being unsuccessful, the fox would raise its head and flounce forward a few paces; feet gliding effortlessly threw the air, before repeating the same motion. Mycroft watched the inquisitive animal make its way across the turf, and continued to do so, until it disappeared out of his line of sight._

 _Taking a deep breath, Mycroft sighed and turned to face his alarm clock, resting on his bedside table._ _He looked glumly at the metallic hands. '02:31.' He had to get up in less than four hours and he hadn't had a moment of sleep. Normally, after an hour or so of reciting the alphabet backward, lethargy would set in and he'd drift off._

 _Mycroft had gone to bed early that night. Infamous tempers were lingering and the last thing he wanted was to get tangled up in another fierce argument. The eleven year old had claimed he felt ill in order to excuse himself from the dinner table before heading up to his bedroom. The results of last altercation did not bare reiteration._

 _Mycroft glanced back towards his clock. 'Oh dear, Lord.' The minute hand had only shunted forward three spaces. This was no good, he had to do something._

 _After some deliberation, Mycroft decided he was going to read a book. He'd finished all the ones in his room so thought he'd go and fetch a new one from his father's study. 'I'm sure he won't mind if I just borrow one. For...Educational purposes.' He said, trying to reassure himself._

 _Throwing away the weighty covers, Mycroft hoped out of bed. He shuddered at sudden temperature change; recoiling as his bare feet made contact with the cold wood panel flooring. Scouring round the inky black room, Mycroft hastily pulled on his slippers and dressing gown, and hurried to the door; quickly turning back to snatch up his electric torch. He grabbed hold of the brass door knob and turned it over slowly in his hand, trying to make as little noise as possible. Hearing the little metallic click, Mycroft eased the door open and slipped out into the hallway._

 _It was slightly darker out here than in in his bedroom but it was twice as cold. Mycroft tugged at the stripy sleeves of his pyjamas, pulling his hands further inside in an attempt to keep his fingers warm. He slowly edged down the corridor, ensuring the door to his parents' bedroom was firmly closed before switching on his flash light, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the new found brightness._

 _He continued down the corridor, throwing the torch light across the walls, looking at the pictures and paintings that hung on them. Their eyes seemed to follow him as he walked through the darkness, their stern faces staring back at him. It was as if they knew he was about to go in his Father's study._

 _Mycroft had just about reached the main flight of stairs when he paused outside Sherlock's room. A soft, warm light spilled out from the crack under his bedroom door. 'That's strange...' thought Mycroft. 'Sherlock's never normally awake at this hour.' He frowned and pressed an ear to the door. At first he wasn't sure but he thought could hear his little brother snivelling quietly to himself. Mycroft pulled away slowly and looked apprehensively at the inviting glow on the floor. He tentatively placed his fingers against the varnished wood, tapping it ever so gently with his index finger. "Shirey," he whispered, "Are you alright?" There was no reply. "It's me, Mike." Still no answer. "Listen," he said, slightly louder this time. "I'm going to come in, okay?" He waited a few more seconds before cautiously prodding the door open._

 _The sight that met him both shocked and worried Mycroft. His baby brother had stuffed himself into the far corner of the room. His legs were drawn up tightly into his chest, face was buried in his folds of his arms; pressing down on top of his knee caps. Every breath he drew was jittery and uneven, making his body shudder._

 _The torch clattered to the ground. Mycroft rushed towards his brother, hurdling over the bed._

 _"Sherlock, what is it? What's the matter?" he said hurriedly, dropping to his knees. "It's okay, Sherlock. What happened? Did you have a nightmare?" He placed a gently hand upon his brothers shoulder but was startled when Sherlock flinched, arms flying up towards his face. Mycroft pulled away, staring at his younger sibling with concern and puzzlement. "Sherlock…? Are you okay?" Slowly, Mycroft lent forward, peering between the Sherlock's small fingers. His startled expression dropped. "Sherlock… Show me your face." The four year old shook his head, turning away from his brother._

 _Cautiously, Mycroft reached forward and took his brothers hands in his._

 _Upon his touch, Sherlock suddenly screamed out. "NO!"_

 _Mycroft fell back on heals putting his hands out in front of him. "Shhh! Shhh! Shhh! It's okay! It's okay! I'm not going to hurt you."_

 _Sherlock had now pulled his duvet over his head and recoiled even further into the corner._ _Slowly, Mycroft sank to the floor, releasing a breath he didn't even realise he was holding. He glanced back towards the door, to check that no one had been disturbed by his sibling's sudden outcry, before crawling beneath the mass of material._

 _Mycroft sat cross-legged in front of his brother, observing him with a look of compassion. Sherlock was pressed against the wall; feet turned in on themselves. His small, pale, shaky hands smothered his face, leaving only the tangled mess of black curls visible._

 _"Sherlock, please tell me what happened."_

 _Sherlock shook his head, dragging a sleeve across his nose._

 _"Who did this to you?" Mycroft's voice was soft and sincere._

 _"No one!" The little boy's tone was instant and desperate. It suddenly dropped off though, to a mumble. "I just walked into a door."_

 _Mycroft sighed. "Let me see." he said, holding out his hands._

 _Sherlock stared at his brother's hands, eyes full of trepidation._ _He slowly lowered his fingers eyes tightly shut; biting his lip._ _Mycroft rose a gently hand to Sherlock's faces, cupping his cheek in his palm. He ran his thumb over the blossoming bruise that was surrounding Sherlock's eye. Sherlock gave a hiss of pain, flinching away. Mycroft look at him apologetically. Sherlock slowly returned to his brother's touch. Mycroft stared into his brother's eyes for a moment more before turning his gaze to the floor._

 _Dreading the answer he would receive: "Sherlock, what really happened?_

 _There was a pause. The young boy dropped his head._

 _…_

Mycroft's face screwed up. The one thing he'd never wanted to hear come out of Sherlock's mouth.

 _"Sir...?"_

Mycroft was pulled from his memories by a gentle knock at the door. It was Anthea, his secretary. "Sorry to disturb you, sir, but you have a meeting in five minutes and we really ought to be going."

Mycroft blinked, centring his thoughts again. Then, turning warily towards the door, still slightly disorientated, he replied, "Yes, of course. Be right out." He glanced towards the window. Pale summer sunlight was streaming through the twisted tree branches outside, casting contort, writhen shadows across the floor. How long had he been sitting here? It couldn't be three already…Could it?

Mycroft sat in the silence puzzling over this re-awoken memory. It had been such a long time. What had made his brain wander back into that forgotten territory? Pausing again, Mycroft pulled out his phone; the screen illuminating his pale skin in the dim gloom of his office.

...

 _NEW TEXT MESSAGE:_

 _To: SHERLOCK HOLMES_

 _Is everything alright, little brother? You had me somewhat worried earlier. If you need anything, just call me. I'm on your side. Remember that, Sherlock._

 _\- M_

 _..._

Mycroft's thumb hovered above the send button. No. He was over reacting. Sherlock's fine. He's always fine. If something was wrong, John would call. The elder Holmes brother demurred over the button for a moment long before pocketing his phone.

Sighing, Mycroft snatching up his umbrella and left.

* * *

 _ **"You care! I**_ _**know you do!" Holmes men are so frustratingly full of British propergander. I can see why John get irritated. Review?**_


	7. Troubling Behavior

When the doctor arrived outside Scotland Yard, seventeen minutes after leaving Baker Street, he hadn't even realised. It wasn't until the cabby coughed and said, 'Seventeen pound – eighty, mate,' in his thick cockney accent, that he was stirred from his magic-like trance, back in the real world.

He had been resigned to his thoughts, head against cold glass window of the taxi, watching the world go by; thoughts of last night and of this morning flittering through his mind. Sherlock had stayed silent earlier, avoiding all his attempts at starting a conversation. Lying. John could see the conflict in his friend's eyes as he had stared out the kitchen window. _Why couldn't he just tell me?_ It made the doctor want to just shake the detective by the shoulders and snap him out of his self; snap this stupid idea that he has to face everything alone, out of his head.

The ex-soldier stuck a hand into his pocket, digging out a twenty pound note. He passed it to the driver and got out of the car. 'Keep the change.' he said, before slamming the door.

John hoped up the carbolic grey steps towards the station, slowing to a walk as he entered the building glass building through a pair of automatic doors. If there was a new case then this was the most-likely place Sherlock would be. Standing on the polished floors of the reception, John quickly scanned the branching corridors for the gaunt figure. No sign. He turned to young, bleach blonde receptionist he'd seen staring at him from the corner of his eye. 'Sherlock Holmes?' he asked openly. Her rouge stained lips moved as if to say something when an irritable shout travelled harshly through the low ceiled corridors of the entrance hall. John's head whipped round to the source of the noise. John instantly recognised it a Sherlock's voice. The doctor turned back to the receptionist to see her staring down the same corridor as he was. Her head cocked towards John but said nothing. Her bright, pale face was shaped in surprise.

'It's okay.' The doctor tried to reassure. 'He's not a rampaging maniac.' He laughed nervously. 'He's…Got an appointment…'

The women didn't respond. Both of their head, however, snapped back towards the corridor when they heard another shout.

He looked back to the receptionist. 'It's fine. Don't call anyone.' And with that, he sprinted off down the hallway, leaving the girl dumfounded and trepadated.

As he left her, John couldn't help but smile to himself. 'Don't call anyone…' He seemed to be saying that to an increasing amount of stunned strangers. Sherlock really did know how to make an impression.

It was dark in the labyrinth of clinical passages at Scotland Yard. Half the artificial ceiling strip lights were faulty, almost as few and far between as the windows. John felt a sense of unease as he loped down the endless winding hallways towards the Crime Scene Investigation Department. They were eerily empty but not silent. His flat footsteps were accompanied by the dull buzzing of electronics and the baritone voice of a seemingly corybantic detective.

'FOR GOD SAKE! If you and you idiotic team weren't so mentally retarded, I WOULDN'T HAVE TO!'

And it wasn't just his shouts either. There was another man screaming as well…

'You think you're so clever, Mr. "I can deuce you in one look," but you're not!'

Anderson.

'Phil, just let the freak do what he needs to.'

And Sally…

…

'Well if I'm so stupid,' Sherlock bit back, 'Why am I here doing your job?!'

'You're only here because Lestrade pitys you!' screamed Anderson.

'Pitys me?!'

'Just let it go, Phil.'

Anderson whipped round to face Sally. 'No! I'm sick of him just waltzing in here like he owns the bloody place.' He spun back to face Sherlock again, taking a step towards him. 'We all know you're a drug addict, Sherlock! The DI's just being soft; keeping you busy so you don't go and overdose!'

Sherlock was about to viciously retort when -

'Holmes! Anderson!'

The pair we're silenced as Lestrade stepped out of his office.

'Can you two stop bickering? We haven't got the time. Anderson, I have invited Sherlock and I'd be thankful if you'd get back to work. Sherlock, come in here, please. I need you to look at this evidence.'

Sherlock scowled at Anderson; irritated that he hadn't had the final word. Drawing his eyes away, he slowly began pacing towards the DI's office. The Forensic stood still, glowering at the Detective's back. There was a moment of silence before Anderson's smooth, tantalizing voice, broke the lingering tension. 'You know what Sherlock. I was wrong...'

Sherlock stopped in his tracks. He looked at the Forensic from the corner of his eye.

"The DI doesn't give you work because he's worried you'll overdose. -"

"Anderson. Work. Now, please." cautioned Lestrade.

"- He's just terrified he's gonna walk in on you one day and find you lying unconscious, bleeding out…"

Lestrade threw a fleeting, nervous look at Donovan as the detective slowly began pivoting upon his heels towards the scene assistant.

"Me, Sally, the DI, Kate, Frank; we've all seen them, Sherlock…All those scars up and down your arms."

"Anderson…" Lestrade's tone was no long warning. It instead carried a anxious intensity. But Anderson just continued to speak bitterly. "Looks as if you hate yourself almost as much as everyone hates you! Poor little Sherlock can't handle it so decides to cut himself up instead."

Sherlock stared darkly at the ground as Anderson's bitter words stabbed into his skin like thorns; barbs lodged in his flesh. His tone was harsh and bitter and grew more so the as he spoke.

"Anderson… That's enough now." Said Lestrade, seeing the Detective's jaw tighten. He hadn't retaliated yet which can only mean two things: Sherlock's going to storm out, possibly break down. (Which is really not good.) Or Sherlock's going to brutally murder Anderson. (Again, not ideal.)

Anderson however completely ignored the Inspector.

"So lonely, you tried to end it all, didn't you?!" Anderson reached out and grabbed Sherlock by the sleeve of his coat. By now he was almost nose to nose with the detective. "I can tell by the depth of the one on your left wrist. You didn't do a very good job, did you?!"

"Phil…" Sally cautioned nervously, suddenly seeing a dangerous flicker across the Consultant's eyes.

"You-You try to convince everyone you're invincible but it's just a façade! You're weak! And all those pathetic little lines prove it."

"ANDERSON, THAT'S ENOUGH!"

Anderson stopped, giving the detective a malicious grin. Sherlock still hadn't removed his gaze from the ground besides him. Slowly, the Forensic leaned forward to the Detective's ear. "What was the long one for?" he whispered. "Did you do it when you realised you'd never have any friends or when you realised Mummy and Daddy didn't love you?"

…

John haulted in alarm, heart pounding in his chest. A terrible, rasping scream echoed the walls around him. He found himself holding his breath. The Doctor's feet were suddenly moving at twice the pace they were before, scuffing their way across the polished floors with a flinching screech. He flew into the open expanse that was that was the DI's department. The mazes of desks we're all near abandoned. Papers scatter the floor. Shouts of angry commands were flying through the air. John looked up from the mess on the brillow pad-like carpet to see Lestrade strong arming Sherlock into his office. The rest of the department seemed to be picking someone up from the floor. John sprinted over to help the Inspector who was struggling to restrain Sherlock's thrashing arms. 'Sherlock! Sherlock, stop!'

'Sherlock, mate, calm down!'

'No! Let go of me!'

'John Watson, your friend is a bloody lunatic!' The doctor turned to see Sally staring at him, kneeling in front of Anderson who was now sitting on a swivel chair, clutching his throat with his right hand.

'Sally, that's not helpful.' Shouted Lestrade awkwardly, wrapping his arm around Sherlock thin torso.

'He needs to be locked up in a mental asylum.'

'Sally, that's enough!'

'He could have killed him!'

'That was my intention!' Sherlock screamed, throwing his weight away from the DI's trapping grip.

'Sherlock, if I have to knock you out to get you in this office I will.' countered the struggling Inspector.

John grabbed Sherlock's right arm, looping it around the back of his neck, pushing his shoulder into his chest. 'Sherlock, calm down.'

The comment fell upon deaf ears. The detective continued to thrash wildly, hoarsely screaming across the room.

Lestrade looked to John, exhaustedly. John nodded, understanding what they had to do. The pair mustered all the strength they had, together forcing Sherlock backwards inside the DI's office. Lestrade slammed the door closed, locking it from the outside. 'John, can you go and check on Anderson for me?' he asked breathlessly.

John nodded, looking over at the forensic. 'Yeah, of course.' That probably should have been the first priority.

Sherlock pounded the door with his fists. 'Let me out!'

'Sorry, Sherlock; no can do. Just breathe, okay?'

'No! - Lestrade, this isn't funny.' There was suddenly a hint of uneasiness in the Detective's voice.

'I know, Sherlock. I know.'

'Lestrade, I mean it.'

'I know, Sherlock! Just a minute, okay. You need to calm down.'

'No. Lestrade. Let me out.' There was a hanging pause. 'Greg. Please.'

The DI's face screwed up, painfully. 'I'm just going to check on Anderson, okay?'

'No. No! Lestrade!' Sherlock hit the door again.

'I'll be back in a minute.' Greg strode away before he could hear Sherlock's reply.

The DI rested an outstretched palm on the table besides which John was kneeling. 'Is he alright?' he questioned enervatedly.

'Yeah, he'll be fine.' replied the doctor.

'Fine?!' Anderson squeaked. 'The lunatic nearly suffocated me.'

'Nearly. But he didn't. And if I ever,' growled the detective. 'Hear you say anything like that to him again, IO, I'll be the one to strangle you! Do I make myself clear?!'

Anderson looked down at his hands indignantly. 'Yes, Sargent.'

'Good.' He turned to John, lowering his tone. 'Can you go and talk to Sherlock for me. Yesterday and then this, I- There's something wrong. He's trying to hide it from me and I want to know what. I'll be in in a minute.'

John nodded slowly, without words. It was evident to the DI, however, in John's knitted features, that he was thinking more than he was saying.

The soldier stalked across the space to the door of Lestrade's office door. His fingers oscillated on the lock before turning it slowly. He saw the detective sit up straight as he stepped inside the room. His feet were on the chair in which he was now sitting, long legs pulled into his chest. He looked at John but said nothing. John closed the door again, resting tiredly against the varnished pine. He sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. 'Sherlock-'

'No.'

The Doctor looked up sharply. 'Sherlock! You didn't even know what I was going to-'

'No. I will not answer any of your questions.'

'Sherlock.'

'Or his.'

'Sherlock, what is the matter with you?! – Hm? Because this isn't making any sense to me.-'

The young detective looked silently up at his friend whose white knuckled hands were now gripping the back of another chair.

'-Because this time yesterday you were smiling as lightbulbs glowed above your head and people danced across a stage together and now you've stayed out all last night and half throttled a man to death.'

'He deserved it.'

'I have no doubt of that but you usually just ignore it or make some quip comment about it. I want to know why this time what different.'

Sherlock said nothing. John sighed again pulling out the chair which he had been grasping. He dragged the seat beside his friend who suddenly unfurled, eyeing him suspiciously. This frustrated John even more. 'Sherlock-I- This is what I mean!' he referenced to his stick-like legs. 'This behaviour isn't you!'

'How would you know?! You barely know me!' Sherlock shrieked at him.

'Oh, yeah, after living with you for six years, I wouldn't have had the capacity for learning what your mannerisms are.'

'Two of those years don't count.'

John's mouth fell open. 'Sherlock, if you dare ever to say that to me again.'

'Or what?' Sherlock marked arrogantly.

John was about ready to detonate when Lestrade walked in. He took stock of John's face knowing his next question wasn't really going to be necessary. 'What's wrong?'

'He's being a prick and trying to push me away.' John spat pointing a finger at the detective.

'And it's not gonna work?' Lestrade handed.

'And it's not gonna work.' John certified sternly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

'STOP IT!' John screamed. 'You care! I know you do! So why are you trying to hurt me?!'

'Don't flatter yourself.'

John turned from the detective, face angled towards the ceiling. 'I can't believe this.'

Lestrade lent forward, pushing a hand into the back of Sherlock's chair. The suddenly consultant shied away from it.

'Sherlock, that's enough. This is the second time in the past twenty-four hours you've given me cause to worry about you, so Christ knows what you're doing to him. Now you can lie to John all you like and, hell, he might even believe but you're not getting past me, not for one second. You're hiding something from me and from him and I want to know what it is, now!'

Sherlock scowled at the detective, almost challenging him. 'I'm not that child anymore.' He said sternly.

Lestrade looked over his shoulder as John let out a sarcastic laugh. He turned back to Sherlock, giving him a lopsided look.

The detective shook his head. 'Don't say it.'

'Sherlock-'

'-Or I swear to God I'm leaving this office right now.'

John pivoted back to the bickering pair upon hearing his friend's voice catch in his throat, all the fury dropping from his face.

'Sherlock, I will always worry as if you're still that kid.'

The detective got up forcibly pushing Lestrade aside. 'I'm not doing this.' He said, throwing the door open.

'Sherlock!' The inspector called, walking after the detective as he stormed past the accumulation of desks. 'Sherlock, wait.'

'No!' He shouted bitterly over his shoulder. 'Go to hell!' And with that, he disappeared down the corridor leading away from the department.


	8. An Unwanted Reunion

Lestrade watched the detective stride away from the office, hands delved angrily in velvet pockets. He cursed under his breath. 'Nice one, Greg.' He muttered to himself. 'Handled that really well.' By now, everyone in the expansive office was staring at him. He growled frustratedly. 'What are you lot gorping at? We have a case to solve. Get back to work.'

The DI strode back to his office, slamming the door. Pushing a hand through his salt and pepper hair, looked up to see John leaning on his desk with a clenched fist looking fiercely troubled.

'What were you talking about?' he whispered hoarsely. 'What did he mean?'

Greg faulted. 'John-I-'

'Because this isn't making sense anymore.'

'John, this isn't something I can tell you about. If Sherlock want to keep secrets from you then that's his choice. I'm sorry.'

'Then what was all that about today?!' John shouted frustratedly as Greg rounded him, sitting down at the desk.

The DI sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes. 'Anderson accosted Sherlock about his scars.'

John narrowed his eyes at the Inspector. 'Scars?'

'Yeah, you know the ones up his arms.'

'What? What are you talking about?'

'What do you mean? I-I thought you knew. You've lived with him for so long. I just assumed-.'

'No. No, shut up! I don't understand. What are you talking about?

'Sherlock he-.'

'No. You're wrong.'

'John, I'm so sorry. I thought you knew, I thought you'd seen.'

'Why? Why would he even-?' John fell silent pinching the bridge of his nose. 'His my best friend…I never noticed, I never realized…'

The Inspector paused, face marked by sympathy. 'Maybe that's what he intended…' He muttered.

John ran a hand through his unkempt, sandy blonde hair. 'Jesus-Jesus, maybe he was right. Maybe, I don't know anything about him.'

'John, you're hardly to blame in this. He's Sherlock. He could have fooled God himself.'

'But I'm a doctor, Greg! I should have known, I should have realized.'

'-John it's okay.'

'No it's not! And now we've left him all alone when he's feeling like this-.'

'John-.'

'-No. I'm going to find him.' John shoved his hands into his coat before walking purposely from the room.

Greg leapt after him. 'John, don't!'

But the doctor was already gone.

…

Sherlock stormed out into the grey street with the force of a speeding bullet.

 _How dare they. How dare they! John just confronting me like that. Who the hell does he think he is?! And Lestrade bringing things up as if it were as common knowledge. An everyday occurrence. He had no right. No right to say that, and in front of John! And Anderson… Oh, if I ever get my hands on Anderson again I'll-I'll-_

The detected growled angrily, kicking the road beneath his feet like an unhappy child. He turned the corner of Darnce Street into Broadway. The cracked, blotchy pavement was compacted with tourists that flooded in and out of St James's Park Tube Station, taking pictures of every, taxi, bus or phone box they came across. Sherlock shouldered his way through the crowd, gaining some disgruntled mumbles from the languid Londoner's speeding between the city's shops in their terse lunch breaks. The detective all but lost it when his phone chirped noisily from inside of his coat. Sherlock wrestled the device from his pocket. 'Shut. Up!' he screamed throwing the phone at the solid concrete pavement in a fit of rage. It scraped and skittered across the ground. This made the surrounding people jump, pausing momentarily to stare at him as if to wonder why his was not already in a mental institution. Sherlock looked about himself, suddenly aware of what he'd done. A nearby, sun blotched police officer narrowed his gaze at the detective. Sherlock sheepishly picked the device up again before hurrying off. The last thing he wanted was to be returned to Lestrade.

The consultant walked the edge of Parliament Square. He gazing up at Big Ben, taking a deep breath. Its large intricate hands, sat silently on the clock's ornate face pointing to the numerals one and four. He'd been awake for well over thirty-six hours now and those hour were beginning to take their toll. The detective scrubbed a hand over his face. He just wanted to sleep and forget the past day ever happened. He sighed before setting off down one of the square's sanctuary side streets. Had he not been so distracted by the unfolding events in the coming minutes, Sherlock would have recognised the quick paced steps encroaching on his.

Sherlock suddenly gasped as a heavy hand grasped his left shoulder. He shrunk away from the contact only to suddenly find himself being spun violently around. He was tugged forward by the lapels of his jacket and dragged down a side alley before being slammed into a dusty, red brick wall with a hollow _thud._ He winced as his head connected harshly with the crumbling stone. The detective swatted the infringing limbs away from him. Arms out defensively, he looked upon the face of his attacker. His eyes sprang open wildly. A scream nearly escaped his lips and would have succeeded if it were not for a set of long, spectral fingers being clamped over his mouth. Fear enveloped his pallor face. He tried to scream again but was prevented.

'Now, now, Sherlock. Wouldn't want to go waking up the neighborhood.'

Sherlock was now breathing rapidly, panic encroaching on his rationality. He didn't dare move as the imposing figure smiled slyly. The man elevated the pressure from the detective's mouth. His fingers gently pushed an unruly, dark curl from Sherlock's face, tucking it behind his ear. 'Messy as ever.' He mused, looking the young man up and down. His twisted smile shifted seamlessly into a flinched as he felt the man's grip close tightly around his left wrist. 'You haven't said much Shirley. Is everything alright?'His voice was, all of a sudden, dangerously calm. 'Or are you not pleased to see your father?'

* * *

 _ **Oh crumpets... I know... Was that bad? I hope it was an okay surprise. Were you theories correct? If so, well done. And, I'm not doing my job properly hahaha Review? Pretty please ;)**_


	9. Past Hurts

Sherlock didn't respond to his father's tantalizing words, only too aware of the crushing grip around his fragile wrist tightening. Instead he kept his gaze firmly on the floor at his shoed feet. Siger raised a heavy eyebrow at his son's silence. 'What's the matter, Sherlock? Suddenly lost your voice?'

'You-You killed Sherrinford.' the detective stammered.

This received a lopsided smile from his father. 'We both know it had to be done.' he whispered.

Sherlock tried to pull away as his father's cold fingers slipped across his left cheek but stopped feeling the grasp around his wrist tighten even further.

'It was for the best.' His whisper dripped with mock sympathy. Siger smirked vindictively, seeing the detective squirm under his touch. He paused, taking a breath before continuing, 'Did you tell your brother about the little _incident_?'

Sherlock cringed at the word.

 _Incident? How could it be an incident? It was murder!_

'No one deserves what you did to him.' The detective muttered, a sudden courage found in his embittered animosity. 'No one but you.'

The imposing figure took a step closer. _'What?_ I didn't quite catch that. _'_ he hushed gently.

Sherlock took a shaky breath, his eyes flicking to his father's for a brief second before turning away again. 'He didn't deserve it.' He said slightly louder this time, trying to keep the hesitancy from his voice. His father's laugh burst forward vehemently. Sherlock fell in on himself, defeated.

'Aw, look who's got brave in his age.' Siger sneered, taking another step forward, body now pressed to Sherlock's. 'I'm almost proud… Almost.'

The ghoul's spindly fingers twisted their way around his. _He knew what was coming next…._ Sherlock felt the panic rising in his chest. _'Please let go of me.' he whispered helplessly_

'You know, Sherlock,' the man jeered. 'I would have thought after all these years you would have learnt by now.'

Sherlock tried to pull his arm free from his father hand, feeling an intense ache appear in his bending bones. The detective looked pleadingly into his father's eyes. _'No. Father, please.'_ came a child's trembling voice. 'Father, please don't. Dad. _No, no, Dad, please, no_ - _ **Ah!**_ _'_

There was a hideous crack. Sherlock gave a sharp cry, knees buckling beneath him. He bit hard into his lip to stop himself from screaming as a searing pain shot up his left arm. He thought then and there he was going to collapse to the floor but he was pressed between his father and the wall. Siger's tantalising fingers unknitted themselves from his. They slowly moved upward, caressing the dark curls at the nape of the consultant's neck, playing casually with them. He then pulled the detective in close, holding him strongly in his arms. 'Just a little reminder where we stand, William.' he whispered delicately in his ear. 'Remember what you are.'

A hot, irreparable tear slipped down the detective's face. The towering creature stepped away from him. Sherlock, now having no one to support his weight, slumped broken to the floor, clutching his mangled hand.

'Eheu fugaces labuntur anni.' His father smiled before strolling to the end of the alley. 'I'll be seeing you, Sherlock. Give my regards to your brother.'

Sherlock pressed his arm to his chest in an attempt to try to stop it throbbing. He watched bitterly, holding his father's gaze until he had disappeared from view.

The detective sat in silence, hideous memories wavering in and out of his brain. Sherlock's head sinking to his furled knees, raven curls falling across his face. He had to tell Mycroft. _But what if he went after him...? What would happen if he found out it was father who really killed, Sherrinford? Oh God, this was just some horrible, horrible nightmare!_ He was suddenly snapped from his thoughts by an urgent voice.

'Sherlock!'

 _It was John._ The detective quickly struggled to his feet, hastily making for the opposite direction but wasn't quick enough. Before he knew it, his flatmate was at his side, a gentle hand resting on his forearm. 'I'm fine, John.' Sherlock spat, pulling away.

'Sherlock-.'

'For Christ sake, John, I said I'm fine!' The detective turned viciously fast towards his flatmate. John initially looked frightened by this outburst but his features were quick to soften. 'I know.' He breathed. 'I know you are…'

Sherlock blinked at this unexpected reply. John saw this as an allowance to continue. 'Now, I know you won't want to talk about earlier, and that's okay, we won't.'

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously.

'I'm not gonna make you but would you at least come home, please, with me?'

' _Why?'_ he voiced, as if completely offended by such a request.

John was taken aback. He didn't reply but, instead, surveyed the detective's countenance. 'When was the last time you ate?'

'Surely that's no concern of yours.'

'It is, Sherlock, because I'm your doctor and I'm your friend and if you're running around out here, alone, you're going to worry me.'

'Why do you always have to be so bloody intrusive?!' Sherlock bit, angrily.

'And why do you have to be such a prick about everything?!' John snapped, frustration bubbling over.

Sherlock didn't respond, only stared blank faced at the smaller man opposite him. John pause, breathing out tiredly. 'I'm sorry, Sherlock. You- I just worry about you because I care about you, okay? You're my friend, my best friend, and the last thing I want is to upset you but you've scared me, Sherlock; over the past couple of days; really scared me and I can't help but think you're hiding something from me, something I can help you with.'

Sherlock said nothing. John reached forward for Sherlock's fingers, but the detective suddenly started away. The doctor eyed him curiously. 'Sherlock, are you alright?'

'Just leave me alone, John.'

' _Sherlock-!_ '

' _No!'_ The consultant stormed away from his flatmate's outstretched hand, vanishing out of the alley.

John fell back against the wall, swearing under his breath. _'Damn it.'_ He pulled his phone out, scrolling through is contact until he found Greg's number. He dialed, tapping his foot impatiently on the ground. He sighed, finally, as the call was received at the other end.

' _John._ -Any luck?' came the inspector's exhausted voice.

'I found him but…'

'But what?'

'He's run off again. He's hiding something from me, Greg. Every time I go to touch him, he flinches away as if I was going to hurt him. Why would he think that?'

'I don't know.-Listen, John, I've gotta go.'

'What?'

'We'll catch up a bit later, okay?'

'Greg-?' Before John could say anymore, the line went dead. John stared confused at the screen. _What the hell was that about?_

Disgruntled and beaten, John sighed, pocketed is phone and set off for home.

* * *

 _ **Well... Sherlock's dad is a bit of a bastard. (Sorry, but it was necessary.) I wish Sherlock would tell someone! Gah! What are your thoughts?**_


	10. A Dropped Violin

**_Guys you've all been so wonderful and supportive! I'm sorry I haven't updated in a little while. I know where I wanted to take the story but I've been a bit lost as to how I explain it. Now I'm afraid it's the other way round. I have a distant end to the story but not an overwhelming amount to fill the gaps. But anyway here's this chapter I hope you enjoy._**

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 _John's Blog:_

 _I returned to a darkened 221B not long after three. Thought to be alone, it was to my deep and thankful surprise that my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes, was actually home, curled surreptitiously on the sofa beneath his heavy Belstaff coat. With a relief-full smile, I neared him; to ask if he was alright, only to find the loaf already in a comatic sleep. I was grateful for this. He needed the mental respite as much as I needed the physical._

 _Slipping off my jacket and shoes, I padded towards the kitchen, rolling the tension from my shoulders. I pulled a striped mug from the cupboard above my head, throwing a tea bag inside before flicking the switch of the kettle._

 _As the water boiled, I rested against the counter top, staring across at my unconscious flatmate. Something wasn't right with him. I'd like to put his recent outbursts down to fatigue but that reasoning did not sit comfortably in my mind because I knew it wasn't true. My flatmate, he-he is many things; ridiculous, outrageous and smart by any named length but hysteric is something he's not. Now, I have seen Sherlock manipulate his emotions , will them to manipulate others but never have I seen him succumb to them; and never ever in front of anyone. I'm sure he'd rather die before that happen. So to have my friend break down on my shoulder does more than ring a few alarm bells in my head. What worries me all the more is that he's trying to push me away._

 _I cross the threshold soundlessly to where he is lying. His face is restful but still concerningly pale. My hand came to rest atop his head, in unruly black curls. I worry, more than I should but he's become so important to me. I couldn't bear if anything happened to him. Not now I final have him back._

 _The days that followed were quiet and everything, as far as could be considered, was normal that was until Sunday morning when it transpired that everything was most defiantly not normal._

…

July 25th 2014

A gentle, warming breeze drifted nonchalantly through the second storey window of the dusty town house on Baker Street marker '221'. Papers on the cluttered desk fluttered ardently with each breathy gust, giving momentary relief to a close room. Amid the humidity, standing by the beaten, leather sofa, was Sherlock Holmes, in scruffy pajamas and cascading velvet, his right hand resting atop his head, immersed in his tight curls. His sharp winter eyes were poring over a mess of pictures, pins and strings after being sent another troubling case from Lestrade. Across from him, in a tattered armchair, dressed in jeans and crinkled red shit, sat John Watson, who, with an opulent ease, was aimlessly flicking through today's newspaper . Everything was seemingly calm. Not just in here in the flat but in the city as a whole. The resent increase of sun and temperature had transferred the streets into a state of slow motion. Noise seemed muffled, muted. It was as if everything was being heard through a tunnel.

With a weary, outward sigh, Sherlock began to pace the room, looking momentarily outside before his dizzying thoughts swiftly moved him elsewhere. He walked towards his desk, pulling out the chair. He stooped below it pulling his violin from beneath.

He sat down on the window sill, opening the case, firstly removing the bow, tightening the hairs. His hands went back for the instrument itself. Finger's closing round the neck; he suddenly winced, the wood fall from his grip. 'Damn it.' He muttered to himself as the violin clattered, with a discordant sound, to the floor. This caught John's attention. He looked up from his newspaper 'You okay?' he asked curiously.

'I'm fine. Fine.' Sherlock shooed, quickly picking up the instrument and putting it on the desk before turning back towards the window dismissively. John frowned at the detective. _What was that all about?_ He was about to reside his thoughts back on the paper when he caught something in the corner of his eye. His hands… They were shaking. The doctor's eyebrows narrowed. 'Sherlock… Are you sure you're alright?'

'As I said, I'm fine.' He muttered swiftly, continuing to look straight out of the window.

The doctor paused, observing his friend for a minute more. 'Sherlock, show me your hand.'

The detective's head suddenly whips towards John. 'No.' He gets up. 'Why do I need to?

The doctor sighs exhaustedly, head lop-sided. Sherlock wasn't going to give in without a fight. He walked towards the detective who was quick to turn away. 'John. Don't.'

'Sherlock-'

The detective backed away from him. 'No, no, I mean it.'

'Sherlock!'

'No, I'm fine! Ah!'

The detective seethed as John lunged forward and grabbed his wrist. He pulled it way, cradling it to his chest like a wounded animal. John gave Sherlock one of his _'Are you going keep lying to me now? Or are we going to be truthful?'_ looks, and the detective knew there no hiding it anymore. He held his arm to John. Taking it up, the doctor gently turned his friends hand over in his. After a moment, and a diagnostic look, his face turned grave. He looked up at Sherlock. 'It's-'

'-Broken?' He finished. 'I know.' Sherlock didn't make eye contact with John. He knew. Of course he did.

The soldier had concern etched all over his face. _'Sherlock…?_ How did this happen? Why the hell didn't you tell me?'

Sherlock didn't reply. He lifted his hand away and walked toward the mantel piece.

'Sherlock, who did this?'

'No one.' he muttered, picking up his phone.

'Sherlock, don't-'

'Lie? I'm not. It was an accident…I just sort of-fell over… broke when I caught myself. I didn't tell you because I didn't think it mattered.' Anger suddenly coursed through his veins. 'God! Why do you always have to be so intrusive?!'

The doctor eyed his companion from across the room. 'Are you sure?'

'Sure of what?!'

'That that's what _really_ happened.'

The detective turned irritably. 'Of course I'm sure, John! I'm hardly going to forget, am I?!'

There was a lingering pause. Both men stared at one another, neither saying anything but both speaking out-loud. Sherlock wanted to hit himself. John was only being a concerned friend and all he could do is belittle him for it. He looked to his feet, breaking the silence with a sigh. 'I'm sorry.' He whispered.

'I know.' John hummed back, moving slowly towards him. 'Sherlock, I'm worried about you. This behavior, it's just so unlike you. I can't help worrying that there is something really wrong that you're not…' he sighed realising that this subject was a lost cause. 'You ought to go to a hospital about your wrist.'

'No.'

'Sherlock-'

The detective strode for the door, pulling his coat from the nearby hat stand. 'I'm not going to a hospital, John.'

John went to go after him but was stopped at a twinge of pain shoot up his right leg.

'Fine!' He blurted out helplessly. 'Just-let me do it! Let me set it. Just don't go…'

…

'Ow!'

'I'm sorry. Just hold still, okay?'

The pair were now sitting on miss-matched wooden chairs at kitchen table. John held his friend's wrist in his hand, winding a length of gauze around it. 'You really ought to have told me, Sherlock. Your wrist really shouldn't have broken this easily.'

'I know. I'm sorry.'

'Why didn't you tell me?'

'I didn't want to worry you.'

'Good job, because I'm really not worried now.'

Sherlock cast his eyes to the floor. 'Sorry.'

There was a pause. 'You know you've been saying that an awful lot recently.'

'Afraid I'm turning into a kind-hearted person?' The detective laughed feebly.

'No.' John said, tying off the end of the fabric. 'You already are one. I'm just worried that you're so distracted that you've got time to consider how others are feeling.'

Sherlock chewed his lip, looking to the floor again. John smiled sadly at him. 'Go on you, go to bed. You haven't slept in days.' To his surprise, the detective did as he said, skulking off to his room, closing the door behind him.

The doctor tidied away his medical supplies, making himself a cup of tea before returning to the living room, falling heavily into his arm chair. He sat here is silent reflection for several minutes. Over what had happened over the past few days. Over what-he'd just seen. Something wasn't right but he couldn't put his finger on it. Residing to at least resolve some of the easier questions buzzing about his mind, he pulled his phone from his trouser pocket. Tapping the screen several times, he held the resonant device to his ear.

'Mycroft, has you're brother ever broken his wrist before?'

There was a wavering silence before the expected eloquent, Holmes-ian voice answered. 'Well, hello to you too, Doctor Watson. Why do you ask such a question?'

'Because today I found him with one. Now, he tells me he fell over and it broke when he hit the floor but that seems unlikely to me because a fully grown adult's bones rarely break with impact, especially someone of Sherlock's weight.'

'And?'

'And, it normal only happens if the patient has a brittle bone disease or they've broken that bone when they were younger.-'

'-Which is why you ask... Well, the answer to your question is yes, he did. Fell off his bike when he was nine. The left on correct? '

'Yes.'

There was a momentary pause before Mycroft spoke again. 'You said found.'

'I'm sorry?'

'You said you found Sherlock with a broken wrist today. Not that he broke it today.'

'That's because I did _find_ it. He'd been hiding it from me.' John waited for a response from the politician but didn't get one. 'Why would he do that?' he continued, tone probing, almost accusative.

'Why indeed.' was his eventually reply. 'You and I both know we can't deuce the interior workings of my brother. It probably didn't even occur to him as an issue, after all, he only thinks of his body as transport.'

John sighed 'I suppose you're right. I'm probably just over-thinking things.'

'Perhaps you are… Will that be all Doctor Watson?'

'Yes, thank you.'

'Good. Good day.'

"Yes," was all the doctor was able to fit in before the phone was hung up on him. He frowned confusedly before disconnecting his end of the line and tossing his phone onto the chair opposite him.

Perhaps he was over reacting. Maybe there really wasn't anything wrong with Sherlock.

* * *

 **Review? Let me know what you thought of the chapter or of the story so far. As I said at the beginning, I need to fill some gaps so if any of you guys have any ideas, or things you want to see, let me know Xxx Have a good Saturday. (If you're reading it today :P)**


	11. Secrets and Lies

**_I like this, staying up till 4 am with a hot drink, writing. It's quite fun. Here's the next chapter. It's almost twice as long as the long as any of the chapters I've posted so far. I'm quite chuffed. (Proud. For those who aren't with our weird, British slang.) As always thank you for being wonderful and supportive. If you do spot any mistakes just shout me. I do re-read these multiple times but I am dyslexic and some things do slip under the radar. [Thank you to sneakysnakes for pointing them out to me last chapter ;) ] I'm going to stop rambling now. GET READING!_**

* * *

Sherlock had remained asleep for most of that afternoon giving John the opportunity to get some laundry done and actually clean up the flat up for once. He began in the kitchen, clearing as may surfaces as possible of his flatmate, weird, disgusting and, of course, "completely necessary" experiments. This was easier said than done as John wasn't sure what was sectioned into "would likely to kill" and what would just "intoxicate a bit." Colour was no indicator. Red, purple, blue, yellow…Frankly, he didn't fancy touching any of them. _Maybe if he pulled his hands into his sleeves…?_ Perhaps not…

Once that horror was seen too, the doctor moved into the living room. He looked over the large, cluttered space with a sigh. There wasn't a single bit of desk, chair, or floor for that matter, that didn't seem have some form of paperwork on it. Old case notes, new case notes, crosswords, university research, arrest warrants, search warrants, bills, printed emails, court summoning's, photographs, you name it, it was probably here.

 _Since when did it get this messy?_

John separated his stuff from Sherlock's, which done at the move of one newspaper, and then set about packing away the old case files, of which really ought to be returned to Scotland Yard but that wasn't going to happen anytime soon. He then went to Sherlock's desk, but decided against touching anything on here in fear of getting his head chewed of in return. Apparently there was a system to all of this… He wasn't entirely sure what system or in Sherlock knows the definition of system but...

The violin and bow however, John moved. He knew how precious both were to his friend and didn't want either to get damaged. He tucked them into the case that still lay open on the window sill. His fingers drifted across the varnished wood, mind wandered back to the events of earlier. Swiftly deciding to shake them away again, the doctor zipped the case, glancing out of the window and replaced it back under the desk.

The sun was still quite high in the sky for the time of day. People in the street below strolled to and fro in shorts, sunglasses and camisole tops; cold drinks in hand. The ground was dry. A fine layer of dust had settled upon everything. It lingered in the air, in the cracks in the pavement and on the surface of each lavish, green leaf that extended from every bending branch. It was a beautiful time of year. But then every season contained an admirable beauty of some description. The atmosphere was close but relief came with a gentle, wavering breeze carrying the soft incense of flower and freshly mown grass. Glorious now but as night draws in, the day's collected heat will radiate out, slowing movements and enticing sweat to brow. John always found the hot, sticky air slightly unbearable. A tempest, a storm, that's what was needed; combusting electricity to snap away the weight of time and air.

The doctor now, moved across the room, picking up jumpers and coat, walking them out into the hallway, hanging them up one by one, his and then Sherlock's. It was when he hung Sherlock's up that he heard something hit the floor with a dull, flat _click._ He looked down to see a piece of paper, or more correctly, an envelope. He sighed, stooping to pick it up. Barely giving it a second glance, he went to shove it back in the detective's pocket but stopped. There was something strange about it .There was a red wax seal on the back of the envelope, broken. It was strange, not primarily because no one does that anymore, but the fact the wax seemed to carry Sherlock's initials. 'SH'. John removed the envelope from the pocket. He turned it over in his hands. His friends name was scratched on the front. Not his full name, just _'Sherlock'._ … _A note then?_ It was written in black ink but it was quite smudged. The entire envelope was blotted sporadically with discoloured spots. It was like when you received the post on a rainy day.

'What are you doing?'

John's jumped, turning at the sound of a baritone voice. His hand flew behind his back. 'Nothing,' He looked about the floor, silently stuffing the note into his back trouser pocket. 'Just a bit of tidying up…'

Sherlock stood before him, looking him up and down, with what was almost scrutiny. John held his breath, an uneasy smile plastered on his face. 'You okay?' he said brightly, trying to throw the detective's suspicious glare.

'Fine…' He muttered eventually, seemingly unfazed by the doctor's behaviour, or rather, seemingly uncaring. He walked to the opposite side of the kitchen, from which the doctor was standing, flicking the kettle on. The doctor watched as the detective reached into the cupboard at his head pulling a mug and setting it down on the counter, hand reaching back for another one.

'No, I'll do that!' John suddenly chirped, quickly jumping towards his flatmate. He pushed away the detective's outstretched fingers, pulling the cup out for himself. 'Why don't you go and sit down?'

Sherlock pulled away, looking narrowly at a John with cynical incertitude. John thought his friend was going to argue or inquire what was going on, why he acting so funny, but, to his relief however, the detective dropped his gaze and did as he said, silently stalking from the room. John let out a pent up breath, throwing his eyes to the celling at if to thank some spectral being for deterring his flatmate.

The doctor tried to change the tone of the convocation, steer the detective away from the moments before. He called over his shoulder as he threw a powdery tea bag in each of the mugs. 'Still really light out. It's quite nice really, don't you think?' John looked across the room. Sherlock stood at his desk, leafing through an open folder, seemingly disconnected with what was going on around him. John turned back with an amused smile. 'Winter will come soon.' He continued. 'Everyone will be in hats and gloves, complaining about the cold.'

All this earnt him was a short, devoid hum. _Acknowledgement or agreement?_ He couldn't tell. ''I think it's just a British thing, complaining about the weather. We've little else to talk about.'

No reply again. The doctor frowned.

'Sherlock!' he called loudly, hoping this would incur more of the detective's attention. 'I-er- don't suppose you fell of your bike when you were a kid, did you?' His tone was light, casual. He didn't want the question to sound quite as probing as it was. _Maybe now wasn't the time to be asking._ He looked over his shoulder again to see Sherlock's crystal blue eyes staring at him from across the room.

'No.' The detective said scrupulously. 'Why do you ask?'

'No reason.' He smiled turning back to the cups. John could tell just by the tone of his voice that Sherlock was squinting at him. He needed to play it cool. 'I just wondered as you broke you're wrist an all. It would explain why it snapped so easily. But it doesn't matter.' The doctor waited a moment to see whether Sherlock was going to take the comment any further but he didn't.

The detective's attention pre-occupied, John decided to pull the crumpled envelope from his back pocket, glancing over at his friend once more before laying it out on the counter top. He pulled the contents out, unfolding it before him. It was a letter.

' _Dearest William,'_

 _ **William?**_

' _I glad to see you found my note. I had no doubt that you would. Bright as ever. Built yourself quite the pretty little reputation now, haven't you. I would go as far as to say I'm proud._

 _I do hope that you weren't too cut up by your little surprise.'_

 _Surprise? What the fuck was this? Is this what had Sherlock acting so strangely?_

John's examining, grey eyes flickered at increasing speed across the letters lining the page. _How did the person know Sherlock or Mycroft for that matter?_

'… _Don't blame yourself, by the way. You and I both know he had it coming for a long time._

 _Yours, always…'_

John looked over at his flatmate again, brow furrowed in concern. He looked back to the letter. The writing was very scrawl-ish. John would have guessed it was a man's; someone older perhaps? By the quality of the paper, someone well off or in a place of status. Or at least that seemed a reasonable assumption…

 _Wow. Molly was right; Sherlock's skills really beginning to rub off on him._

The doctor's fingers tentatively traced over the parchment. Some of the ends of words were smudged. It made the letter hard to read but it was still legible. The ink stained the page in strings, running downwards. _Rain again?_ No, it couldn't have been. The blotches were too few and far between. Nowhere near as many as on the envelope.

 _Oh, God…_

John suddenly felt a sickening weight in his stomach.

 _Sherlock had been crying when he read this…_

A sudden fear seizing his chest, the doctor quickly stashed the letter back in his pocket, fixing up the tea before Sherlock came back. He carried the cups into the living room, smiling, hopefully absent minded at his flatmate. Sherlock gratefully took a steaming mug from his hands, sipping it gently as he settled down into his battered armchair.

'I thought we'd get takeaway tonight.' John voiced casually, trying not to think about what he'd just read. 'Takeaway and shit telly. What you think?'

'I don't eat while I'm on a case.'

'You don't sleep either.' John said, setting his mug on the table. 'I thought today was going to be an exception to this too.'

'It slows me down. You know this.'

'Sherlock today is Sunday. You picked up the case on Thursday. You're breaching the three day rule. You're eating.'

The detective sighed, throwing his head back exasperatedly. 'If someone else gets murdered because I was forced to eat some fried rice, I'm blaming you.'

…

With some gentle, and then some more forceful, persuasion, Sherlock eats some Chinese food; the pair of them sitting in their cosy, dim-lit living room watching crappy film after crappy film into the late hours of the night. They had dragged the sofa across the room so they could see the TV better and this is where they both now laid. John was slumped on one half, Sherlock curled on the other. John scrubbed a hand across his face look at his watch as the credits of Star Wars swept upwards in a sing of triumphant music. _12:30 am_ …Too late as usual.

'I don't know about you, Sherlock,' John sighed, 'but I'm going to bed. I, unlike you, am not a hyper intelligent mega-being that can stay up for 72 hours straight.' Turning the telly off, the doctor went to move but stopped noticing a weight shift on his shoulder. He looked down to see Sherlock's curl-leaded head resting against him. 'Sherlock, mate, it's time for bed.' John shook his friend gently. 'Sherlock…?' No response. The ex-solider rolled his eyes amusedly. He slid out from beneath the detective, gently lowering him across the sofa before walking across the room, picking the blanket up off the top of his armchair. He returned to his friend's side, draping the material over him. He pushed the detective's hair from his face, smoothing it behind his ear with an affectionate smile. 'Good night, Sleepyhead.' He adjusted the blanket once more before retreating upstairs to his own room, changing into his pyjamas and falling weightily into the bed.

…

The doctor had barley been able to settle into a dream, when he was awoken by a horse whisper. One he thought he recognised. He opened his eyes but was only met by blackness. _'Sherlock..?'_ John propped himself up awkwardly on his elbows. He groped blindly in the darkness for his lamp on his bedside table.

'No. It's Greg.' came a whispered reply.

'Greg?' John said confusedly. Maybe he _was_ still asleep. His hand finally found the light switch. He clicked it, flinching away from the sudden assault of brightness. Blinking away the spots from of his eyes, John looked up to the doorway and indeed before him was the Scotland Yard Inspector, exhausted and scruffy looking. He looked as if he'd been in a fight. His salt and pepper hair was tousled and one side of his face was glowing as if he had been slapped.

John sat up _. 'Greg, are you alright?!'_

'Yeah, sorry, I know it's really late. But I need to talk to you.'

'What's happened? Is everything okay?'

'Yeah, yeah, it's just-Sherlock?'

'Is he okay?' The surprise and intrigue in John's voice was suddenly replaced with that of concern.

'Yes. Well sort of. When I came upstairs he seemed to be having a nightmare or something.'

'A nightmare?!' John moving to get out of bed, but the inspector waved at him.

'No, no, don't panic. It's fine. I woke him up, gave him a hot drink to calm him down a bit. He's gone back to bed now.'

John visibly relaxed. 'What was it about?'

'I don't know. He just said _'stupid, unimportant things'_.'

'But he's okay, yeah?'

'Yeah…' The word died at his lips. 'Well, I don't know…That's why I came to talk to you.'

…

'He did what?!'

'Shhhhh! You'll wake him up!'

' _He did what?!'_ John repeated, more quietly this time.

The pair were now sitting opposite one another at the kitchen table, cradling mugs of steaming coffee in their hands. It was silent, eerily so. The only exception to this was the persistent buzz of electricity; the flat sunken in darkness only lit by the harsh florescent tube that hovered at their ears. The doctor, in striped pyjamas bottoms and a long sleeved top, was leaning over the table at the fatigued, suited Inspector.

'I know. I didn't believe it when I was first told.'

'No. You must be mistaken. Your team must have got it wrong.'

'John-'

'Sherlock would not lie about evidence!'

'Well, something's gone wrong somewhere because there are inconsistences in what Sherlock said and what forensics show.'

'Is that why you hung up on me the other day?'

'I'm sorry, I didn't what you to hear. Anderson came bursting into my office shouting about it. I wanted to find out how much truth was in Donovan's and Smith's accusation before I said anything. I wasn't expecting any of it to be but… it doesn't match, John.'

John lent backwards running a hand through his hair.

'It must have been accidental. He was hugely distressed that night, you saw. He wasn't thinking straight.'

'That's what I thought but signs show it was deliberate. Nearly everything matches but when it comes to the age…It's wrong.'

'Age is an easy thing to get wrong.' John protested.

'Yeah… But by 30 years?'

John sat in silence. _Thirty years!_ How could he argue that? Sherlock wouldn't make a mistake like that; the leap is way too big. 'Why would he do that?' John said eventually.

'That's why I came to you.'

'Why would I know anything?'

'Because he's your best friend.'

'That doesn't mean he tells me anything. He's Sherlock. You know what he's…' John sighed. 'There was one thing I found today.'

'Found?' Greg questioned. 'What do you mean found?'

'I'll go and get it.'

The doctor got up from the table, walking from the room. A minute later he returned, white blotted envelope in hand. 'This fell out of his coat pocket earlier. I-I don't know what to make of it.' He slid the paper across the table to the Inspector. He frowned. 'Who's William?

'Sherlock.'

'I- don't understand.'

'Sherlock….William, that's his real name. Sherlock's his middle name.'

'Really…? I never knew that…'

 _The way he said it made me think he was disappointed in himself. Or maybe hurt in some way._

His eyes continued to flicker across the page for the next few minutes until, with a weighty sigh, he set the paper down. 'When did he get this?'

John's eyes cast downwards for a moment. He shook his head. 'I don't know.'

'The envelope is quite heavily blotched. When was the late time it rained?'

'Umm… Wednesday night, I think.'

'When we were at the crime scene…' Greg finished.

'You think he stole this from the scene?'

'I'm thinking it's a possibility. In which case, he's digging himself quite a hole, John.'

'But if that's true, that he got this from the crime scene, then it was left there intentionally. Someone left it for him, knowing he'd be called to help.'

'John, there's something else you need to know…'

John suddenly sat up straight. _What? What else? What could be worse than this?_

'I… I got a DNA done on the body.' The Inspector continued. 'It's the same, the same strand.

' _What?'_

'It really was his brother, John. He wasn't having a having a funny turn. His dead brother really was on the floor in front of him. '

John's hand came to his mouth. 'Jesus…' He looked down the corridor towards his flatmates room. 'I didn't even know he had another brother…'

 _There it was again; that tone. - Uncertainty of truth or failure …?_

'No wonder he's been so up and down, lashing out!' said the doctor. 'He's scaring me, Greg! His bloody arm and now this! Why is he not telling me anything?!'

'Wait, wait, wait.'

'What?'

'Arm?' The detective's tone had an upwards inflection… He didn't know.

'Yeah, his left arm. Didn't you see earlier?'

'No.'

'His wrist, it's bloody broken and he didn't even bother telling me, his doctor and he supposed best sodding friend.'

'What?! 'Why didn't he tell you?'

'I don't know! It wasn't the fact he didn't show me that's clawing at me, though. - He was purposely hiding it from me, Greg.'

'How did it happen?

'He says he fell over, but-'

'But you don't think so?'

'I can't be sure but…'

'But what…? Greg hesitated, not sure he actually wanted to hear what was coming next.

'The bruising, and, the angle, it just- it doesn't',' the doctor sighed. 'I think was inflicted.'

Lestrade let out a pent up breath but said nothing.

'I've seen it before in things like domestic violence. His wrist shouldn't have broken, Greg. He doesn't weigh enough.'

Greg sat up with a shuffle of his shoulders, crossing his arms across his chest. 'Have you called Mycroft?'

'Yes, but he said that the situation was wholly possible because Sherlock had broken his wrist before as a child, falling off his bike or something.'

'And?'

'And I asked Sherlock the same thing-'

'-And he said no.' The inspector finished.

'And he said no.' John confirmed.

'Do you think Mycroft is lying…?' Greg said after a moment.

'I don't know but someone is and I doubt Sherlock would lie about something so petty -Wait!' John started.

'What?' Greg almost jumped at John's sudden energy.

'A message.'

'What message?'

'He said at the crime scene the ribbon was a message. That whole scene had been set up just to get his attention. This letter,' John picked up the paper, shaking it at Lestrade. 'It must be from the murderer.'

'Well then get your sodding hands off of it!' Greg said, snatching it from the doctor's fingers. I don't need you in trouble 'n' all.'

'Greg, what the hell is going on?! Why would Sherlock find this letter and not tell us?!'

'I don't know. Maybe he's trying to protect someone?'

'Who?! Mycroft? He hardly needs protecting he has a personal security team at his fingertips.'

'The murderer then.' the Inspector shrugged.

'Why would want to protect someone who's just killed his brother, Greg? This is making any sense!'

'I know!' He shouted, equally as frustrated as John. 'I know…' He said again, whispering, remembering the detective was still asleep just down the hall. 'But we need to find out who did this, John, and why Sherlock Holmes is lying to us…'

* * *

 _ **REVIEW? I'm still a bit stuck for the next chapter. Any ideas? x**_


	12. It's Not The Drink

**_It's been nearly four months... I'm sorry. Really, really, sorry. If I were you I'd most defiantly be hating on me. I've had the most awful writers block but I think I'm about solved for now so here's the new chapter and there should be more soon :) Thanks for hanging on. I hope it's worth it. Let me know X_**

* * *

 _Jam sandwiches were always the best. Sometimes Mycroft and I would sit up all night reading by torch light, eating jam sandwiches. I never really knew why we did this. It was for fun, or at least that's I thought it was._

 _August, 1986_

…

 _A short shouldered boy sat saddled on the stone ledge of his bedroom window, back settled against the runner. Balanced in his lap, an embossed copy of J.R.R. Tolkien's 'Hobbit' lay open. The young child's crystal eyes flickered over the sepia paper with an untypical ease. His whispering voice, uttered each word as he read, small fingers toying subconsciously with the corner of the page; the only sounds to be heard, his soft, steady breath and the same sweet song of the humble Nightingale from a distant tree outside._

 _It had been a long summer. The days seemed to stretch out in an almost endless motion, one week blurring into the next. Not much happened, at least, nothing of interest. Many of the day's events of recent had been commanded by drizzle and clouded sky. Today was different though. The air was warm. It caressed the rich leafed branches of the nearby oaks, and the satin arms of the meadow daisy._

 _Sherlock turned his gaze from the mythical tale at his palm. The light was beginning to fade with the sun setting. The sky above his head blazed in all manner of pinks, oranges and yellows, sweeping upwards from the horizon, mirroring coloured dye climbing cotton fibered sheets or a painting left in the rain. They seeped into one another seamlessly. The boy closed his eyes. The scent of freshly mown grass lingered in the cooling breeze, bringing a smile to his face. It was moments like this he enjoyed most. Something about nature always restored his mind: The sound of life. Something to bring him back to earth; remind him he was not the only one._

 _The child was roused from his thoughts as the sudden sound of rustling paper whistled past his ears from left to right. He opened his eyes to see a paper aeroplane shoot through the window and land on the cream coloured carpet not too far from his feet. Sherlock swung his legs back into his room, jumping down from the sill. He walked towards the precisely folder piece of paper, picking it up. Sitting down on the edge of his single bed, he began to undo the origami work, laying the sheet out flat on his lap. Inside was a note._

 _Look outside.– M._

 _Sherlock frowned at the scribble, placing the paper on the bed beside him before pacing over to the window. Outside, on the gravel drive below, stood Mycroft. He was grinding widely holding a plat a loft. A smile spread across the child's face... Jam Sandwiches!_

' _I'm coming up!' The auburn haired teenager called before running from Sherlock's sight._

 _Sherlock turned away from the open window and quickly jumped over the bed; snatched up a foam sword from the umbrella stand by his wardrobe. He ran to the door and brandished it before him as he heard the familiar tread of Mycroft's feet approaching. 'Who goes there?! Stand and unfold yourself.'_

' _Tis I, my good Lord.' Came Mycroft's muffled voice from behind the door. 'Your elder of kind, Mycroft.'_

' _Come, my kindly cousin! What do you bring?'_

' _Nay, not cousin, my good Lord: Brother. I bare good fortunes. The cats are away so the mice may play.'_

' _Ah! An eloquent aphorism. This is good news, my brother!'_

' _And I come baring gifts.'_

' _Could it be sandwiches of ruby?'_

' _Jam, my Lord? But of course!' Mycroft held the plate out to his little brother. Sherlock took the plate gleefully, jumping onto his bed. 'Tonight's going to be great!' the child exclaimed. 'Is Sherrinford joining us?'_

' _No. No, he's not. He's studying.'_

' _Oh…' The child sat down, downcast. 'Still, I think it will be good.' He grinned._

 _Mycroft gave a brief, sideways smile, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress. 'Been reading Shakespeare then, Sherly?'_

 _The boy shook his head. 'Nope. Tolkien.'_

' _The Hobbit, yes?'_

' _Indeed yes.'_

' _Any good?'_

' _Mycrofolofal, you've read it.'_

' _Your opinion could differ from mine and do you mind not playing with my name quite so wildly?'_

' _I suppose.'_

 _Sherlock set the plate down on his bedside table before sitting down, cross-legged in the middle of his mattress. He starred at the back of his brother's head for a moment before frowning. 'What's wrong, My?'_

 _Mycroft turned. 'Nothing, I'm fine. I'm grand, Sherlock. What makes you say that?'_

 _Sherlock shrugged. 'I don't know. You just look-not you.'_

' _Not me?' he laughed. 'What do I normally look like?'_

' _Like this!' Sherlock said crawling towards his brother, pushing up the corners of his mouth up with his little fingers. Mycroft laughed again, taking his brother's hands away. 'Happy.' He smiled. 'I am happy because tonight you and I are going to stay up all night long and have fun!' The teenager jumped off of the bed and crossed the room to his wardrobe. Crouching down, he quickly riffled around the bottom. He pulled out several boxes. Included in the pile was Chess and Monopoly. 'There should be games!' he exclaimed, placing the boxes on Sherlock's lap. 'And books… Lots and lots of books.' He pulled a selection off of a nearby shelf and turned back to face his brother. 'Come on! What are you waiting for? Set a game up.'_

' _Oh!' Sherlock quickly jumped to life unpacking a game on the floor._

 _Mycroft watched his younger brother for a moment before crossing to the open window. He gazed out at the darkening driveway that curved its way through the nearby thicket. He closed his eyes, breathing deep. His nerves were all over the place. It was ridiculous. Both of parents had gone out to a sort of work place dinner leaving all the boys alone in the house. That wasn't the issue though. The real problems would begin when the pair got home. The two of them spending too much time together was never a good thing and for that reason, Mycroft found himself silently praying he could get Sherlock to sleep before they returned. He sighed inwardly. Maybe this time would be different. Maybe they would have a good time and come back late, contented. It's the best he could currently hope for. The teenager cast his eyes back on his brother with a smile, clapping his hands together. 'So…What game are we playing first?'_

…

' _Yes! I win!' Sherlock cried thrusting his hands in the air with a gleeful shout._

' _No fair!' Mycroft whined. 'This is the third time you've won. You must be cheating.'_

' _How can you cheat at Operation?' The child protested._

' _You tell me! I'm sure you've worked a way out, siting up here on your own all day.'_

 _You're so silly, My.' The child lay flat on his back, letting out a small yawn. Mycroft shuffled across the floor coming to rest beside him. 'Yeah, that's me.' He sighed. 'Silly.'_

 _The pair stared at the ceiling, minds fluttering about their own thoughts._

' _It's getting late.' Mycroft said eventually, glancing at the ivory clock face on his wrist. 'Come on, I'll help you get into your pyjamas.'_

 _Sherlock climbed up off of the floor, crossing to his bed. Sticking his hand beneath his pillow, he pulled out a pair of pyjamas. He walked back towards Mycroft who was now perched on the end of his bed, handing him the material._

' _Arms up.' The teenager instructed._

 _Sherlock raised his hands above his head as Mycroft pulled at the edges of the boys t-shirt, dragging it over his head._

' _Right, hold still while I put the other one on.'_

 _Sherlock complied whilst his brother pulled his night shirt down to his waist and began fastening the buttons at the top. As Mycroft did this, Sherlock's small fingers fiddled with the top two buttons of own shirt, picking them undone._

' _There.' The pair said simultaneously, hands coming down to rest at their sides. This broke Sherlock into a wide smile and Mycroft couldn't help but grin back._

' _Here,' he said, holding the pyjamas out to his younger sibling. 'Put these on and then pick a book out to read.'_

' _Sir.' Sherlock saluted, taking the trousers._

' _I thought I'd read to you.' Mycroft hummed, looking at the cream carpet at his feet._

' _I can read myself.' Sherlock replied lightly._

' _I know. I just thought it would be nice for a change.'_

 _Sherlock rooted through the pile of books that Mycroft had pulled out. Finding one, he was quick to jump to his feet again. 'This one.' He said holding it up._

 _Mycroft looked up to see his little brother now fully dressed holding a paper back copy of 'Frankenstein' out to him. He took the book, musing over the cover. 'Why this one? He asked inquisitively._

' _Because!' Sherlock said hopping up onto the bed. 'Because Victor his how I imagine you when you get old enough to go to university.'_

' _That's funny that's how I imagined you'd be.' The teenager muttered to himself. He turned around to see Sherlock re-arranging his pillows, shuffling beneath the covers. Mycroft crawled up to join him, making himself comfortable beside his brother. He looped an arm around the back of Sherlock's neck, opening the book between his hands. 'So…From the beginning then?'_

…

 _Mycroft's soft words filled the otherwise peacefully silent room. It was now dark but on Sherlock's bedside table sat a small lamp. It filled the room in a warm apricot light, pushing the shadows far away to the corners of the room. The curtains at the open sash window flutter gently in the cool, midnight breeze._

 _Curled beneath the duvet was Sherlock, head resting on his brother's shoulder. As he read, Mycroft found his hand nonchalantly caressing its way through the child's silky raven curls. 'The world to me was a secret, which I desired to discover; to her it was a vacancy, which she sought to people with imaginations of her own. My knowle-'_

' _Shhh! What was that?' Sherlock suddenly uttered in a harsh whisper._

' _What was what?' said Mycroft, braking from his reading, looking up from the page._

' _I thought I heard a crash from downstairs.'_

' _I'm sure it was nothing.' said the teenager, trying to settle back into a more comfortable position. He picked up the book again continuing from where he has left off. 'My knowledge of the subject was small yet I knew, that this was a knowledge I devoutly desired to possess.' 'There! You must have heard that!'_

' _Sherlock, what are you-?' Mycroft stopped mid-sentence hearing the sound of glass shattering from the floor below. 'Oh no…' He threw away the covers, moving across the room towards the door._

 _Mycroft pressed his ear to the wood of the door. From below, he could hear the muffled voices of both his parent's. They were arguing with one another, about what though he couldn't make it out. Sherlock was quickly at his side. 'What is it, My?'_

' _Nothing. Get back into bed.'_

' _What is it?'_

' _Sherlock-'_

' _Is it a burglar?'_

' _Sherlock, please.'_

 _Sherlock frowned in distaste but did as he was told, running back to his bed and jumping onto it. He leaned avidly off of the edge. 'Mycroft! What is it?'_

 _Mycroft pulled the door open ajar looking out into the dark hallway before quickly closing it again. He crossed over to Sherlock with precision and speed, kneeling down in front of him. He took the child's small hands in his, squeezing them tightly. 'Sherlock, listen.'_

' _I am.'_

' _No, this is serious, okay? I really mean it. I want you to stay here. Stay here and don't move.'_

' _Okay.' The child lost the edge of the excitement from his voice, sounding slightly fearful. 'But if you're not back in five minutes I'm coming to look for you.'_

' _Don't be silly, Sherlock.' Mycroft's head whipped around as another shatter sounded from downstairs. 'Stay here.' He said firmly._

 _The child nodded. He got up, quickly pacing back towards the door. Turning the door knob, Mycroft was stopped by Sherlock's soft, whispering voice._

' _Mycroft...? Be careful.'_

 _Mycroft smiled giving Sherlock a nod before slinking out into the hallway, pulling the door closed with a small click behind him._

 _It was dark out here; and cold. Nothing like the warm room he'd just left. The diamond shaped tiles beneath him were quick to lynch the heat from his socked feet. This place was void of comfort and carried no sense of safety. It was clinical, institutional, like a prison or psychiatric hospital. The only source of light allowing Mycroft to see was a single gas lamped that sat on the small table at the base of the stairs. The teenager cautiously approached the balustrade in front of him. Below his father was leaning heavily against the white wood front door. In his right hand… A brandy glass. Swearing to himself, Mycroft quickly descended the curved, marble staircase to the open entrance hall. He spied his father, taking note of his appearance. He was still wearing the same suit that he had left in but it was no longer neatly pressed. The two top buttons on his shirt were undone and the tails untucked. His tie hung loosely about his neck, unravelling._

 _Taking a wary step forward, Mycroft finally spoke. 'You're back early. Did you have fun?' Mycroft watched as his father raised his head slowly, looking at him but saying nothing. After a moment, he spoke again. '…Where's mum?'_

' _Gone to bed.' said the elder man, straightening up._

' _Bed…?'_

' _Yes. Bed; where you should be.'_

 _Siger crossed the entrance hall, brushing past his son's shoulder, as he walked towards the small oak table with the lamp on. On the table there was also a telephone and half empty crystal decanter. The elder of the Holmes' drained the remains of his drink from the glass in his hand, slamming the now transparent glass onto the glossy surface, causing Mycroft to flinch. He snatched up the decanter, steadily pouring out another glass of the amber liquid. Mycroft reached out as if to protest but stopped himself. He rounded to the other side of his father, noticing the shards of glass of glass that lay scatter across the floor; the remains of one of the tumblers._

' _I just-uh-heard a noise and wanted to check if everything was okay. It sounded like-' The boy suddenly jumped as his father threw the glass he had been clutching at the wall with an enraged exclamation. It shattered with a high-pitched crack._

' _Jesus Christ, Mycroft, do you ever shut up?!'_

' _I'm sorry I didn't mean to-.'_

'" _I'm sorry. I'm sorry." You're always sorry!' The man mocked, voice beginning to sound slightly slurred. 'Perhaps, for once, you could just mind your own fucking business.'_

' _I'm sorry-I mean- I, I'm just going to-'_

 _He gave Mycroft a sharp poke to the shoulder. 'There you go! Yapping away again!' He turned, reaching for another tumbler. The teenage pulled on his arm. 'No, dad, that's enough. You've already had too much to drink tonight.' Finishing his sentence, Mycroft had suddenly realised the mistake he'd made. Siger shook of Mycroft's grip, shoving him harshly to the ground. Mycroft sucked in a sharp breath as he caught himself with his hands. As he'd hit the floor, the splinters of razored glass had lodged themselves in his skin. He sat himself up, trying to pick them from his now bleeding palms. A hiss escaped his lips as he yanked out a particularly deep shard. He looked back up at his father who was now pouring yet another drink. 'You know, it's not the drink that's a monster…' Mycroft muttered bitterly. 'It's you.'_

 _Siger all but dropped the crystal decanter. He turned on the teenage with a flurry of force. Before Mycroft was even able to scramble up to his feet, he found himself being hauled upwards by his shirt collar. 'Dad, dad, what are you doing? – Ow, stop!'_

 _His feet we're almost drawn from the floor as his father brought him to his eye level._

' _Now you listen to me.' He growled. 'I've just about had it with you.'_

 _Mycroft squirmed trying to distance himself from his father's hands. Siger dropped him, shoving him backwards. Mycroft hit the wall behind him. He let out a terrified squeak, flinching away as his father snatched up his wrist. He pinned them to the wall. Mycroft found himself squeezing his eyes shut as if that would hinder his father's actions. Deep down he knew it wouldn't. The teenager recoiled as he suddenly felt a hot breath at his ear. 'You've crossed the line one to many times recently, Mycroft… And you know I won't stand for it.'_

 _Siger let go of his son's wrists, rolling up his sleeves. Mycroft tried to back away but had nowhere to go. 'No.' The child protested. 'No. You don't want to do it.'_

 _Siger raised an eyebrow. 'Don't I?' He drew back his arm. Mycroft gasped throwing his arms in front his face. 'No-Don't!'_

…

 _Sherlock sat on the on the edge of his bed, kicking his legs nervously. Mycroft had been gone for two minutes fifteen seconds... But if felt like ten. Anxiously checking the clock on his bedside table, the child quickly got up and began pacing the length of the room. His small fingers were steeple beneath his chin as he went through all the different possibilities as to why Mycroft was taking so long._

 _He'd started to do this recently at school, pacing and framing his fingers like a church. He found it helped him focus. All the other kids thought this was strange. They looked at him as they played their games in the playground. Whispering and giggling to one another. Sherlock didn't care though. They we're stupid._

 _The child's thoughts were broken when he suddenly heard his brother's fearful outcry from downstairs. He felt his heart skip a beat. He ran to his bedroom door, grasping the handle, but stopped, thinking over his brother's word. He promised he'd stay. His fingers fell to his side. Stay here. That's what Mycroft said. Sherlock anxiously walked away from the door but froze when he heard a smothered scream. He clamped a hand over his pale lips. Forcing himself into action, he snatched up the door knob, pulling the door open and running out into the hallway. Sherlock ran up to the banister and peered down to into the entrance hall._

… _There was nothing the child could do to stop the terrified scream escaping his lips. There, below, was Mycroft, protracted on the floor. Over him…Father…. Spitting horrid words of abuse at him. He couldn't move. Streaked on the side of his brother's head; blood. He wanted to scream again but found his throat was too tight to take a breath. He crawled backwards along the floor limbs shaking feverishly._

 _Sherrinford appeared at the balustrade, about to question what the commotion was about but found the view below informative enough. He looked down to the ground floor the previous confusion on his face quickly turning to dread. 'Shit.' He hissed under his breath. Below Mycroft struggled as he was pulled up from the floor by his throat. He fought to push his father away but it wasn't working. He drew a horse breath, using it to shout to his older brother. 'Sherrinford!' He nodded towards his little brother. '…Sherlock.'_

 _Sherrinford's head whipped round in horror to see his younger brother, practically convulsing on the floor, breathing erratically._

' _Oh, God...' Sherrinford latched his arms around his little brother. 'Sherlock! Sherlock, don't look.' The child screamed out again, kicking as his size two feet were lifted from the ground. Sherringford pulled the boy away from the stairs back towards his room._

 _Sherlock cried out again, seemingly someplace else in his mind. Sherrinford bundled the child into his shoulder. 'Shhh. Shhh, it's okay. It's okay.' Sherlock was now trembling, crying hysterically. He gripped the lapels his brother's jumpers burying his small moon face into the red material. 'Sherri! Sherri, it-it's-'_

 _Sherrinford place the boy on the floor, kneeling in front of him hands, firmly on either side of his arms. 'It's just a horrible nightmare, okay, Sherly. This is just a horrible dream, and you're going to wake-up and everything will be okay, okay?' He grabbed Sherlock's wrists angling him and pushing him into his bedroom._

 _Sherlock struggled in his brother's grip. 'Ow! Sherri, what are you doing?'_

 _Sherrinford pushed his light brown fringe from his face. 'Just stay here. You need to stay here.'_

 _Sherlock pushed his brother away from him 'No! Mycroft needs help.'_

' _Go to sleep. When you wake up you'll realise this was all a dream.'_

' _It's not a dream, I didn't go to sleep!'_

' _Sherlock, please, please just stay here!'_

' _No!' The child punched his brother in the shoulder._

' _I know! I know you're angry and you're confused and scared so it's okay that you hit me but believe me Sherlock there is nothing you can do right now, and one day you will understand that.' Sherrinford tried to embrace the hysteric child, lowing him to calm down but it was no good. The child only fought against him. 'Sherlock… Breathe. It will be okay.'_

' _No! No, get off me!'_

' _Sherlock!'_

…

'Sherlock…? Sherlock, come on, mate, wake up.'

Sherlock's eyes sprang open. He flew upwards, fingers clutching at his dampened navy t-shirt, gasping for air. Startled, Greg reached out a hand, trying to steady the flailing detective. 'Whoa, whoa, it's okay!'

Sherlock began to scramble backward, fingers quickly coming up to his head. 'No, no! Get away from me!'

The Inspector reached out a steady hand. 'Shhh. Sherlock, it's okay. It's okay. It's me, Lestrade. You're at home in London, 221B.' Greg slowly reached forward, taking the detective's thin wrists in his hands, untangling them from his matted curls. 'Come on you, you'll do yourself an injury.'

'Get off! Please, please let me go!' Sherlock's arm's jerked outwards trying to lose the grip, one of his hands connecting with the side of the Inspector's face. The consultant suddenly gasped, hands stilling over his mouth, reality catching up with him. 'Oh my God… Lestrade, I'm so sorry!'

The DI held his hands out. 'It's okay. It's alright.'

' _No. No.' '_ The detective hastily got up, in a disorientated manner, crossing the room towards the kitchen. 'God, God, _I'm such an idiot.'_

'Sherlock, honestly it's alright. You weren't with it.'

The detective shook his head with a small broken sob, sinking down to the floor. Trying to will his emotions away, Sherlock pushed at his temples; his eyes screwed shut.

Greg stood in the amber streetlight that poured into the shadowy living room through the splintered sash window, worry etched all over his face. In the darkness of the room, the DI found himself starring at the back of the detective's head, painfully listening to Sherlock's shuddery breaths as trying to regain control of his breathing. The inspector walked over slowly to stand beside him. Pausing for a moment, Greg lowered himself down to Chemist's level. 'Sherlock…?' he whispered gently.'Sherlock, it's fine.'

The detective shook his head, wordlessly. Greg gave him a flat smile. 'I know, mate.' He patted Sherlock's shoulder as he rose. 'Sit down. I'll make us a cuppa tea.'

After a few minutes Sherlock had picked himself off of the floor and found a seat at the kitchen table. Greg set a steaming mug down in front of the young man before taking the seat opposite him. He observed the detective staring emptily down at the drink before him. His posture was slouched, hands folded tightly in his lap.

'Sherlock…What's happened?'

The detective looked up; eyes wide like a child's.'

'I don't know what you mean.' He said carefully. There was a distance to his voice which Lestrade didn't like.

'Sherlock, you need to talk to me.'

'No, I don't.' The detective replied coldly.

'Sherlock…' Greg reached forward to steadying Sherlock's hands. They were shaking. He enveloped the detective's hands in his own, gently easing his spindly fingers around the warm ceramic of his tea mug. Sherlock watched Lestrade's face steadily all the while. Greg looked up into friend's eyes. 'Something's happened to you; I know it has, Sherlock. I can see it in your face, in your posture. You're not talking like _you_. What's happened that I don't know about?'

'I'm working.'

'Sherlock-'

'-And I'm just tired at the moment. It's got me irritable.'  
Greg sat back. 'You know I would believe you, if you were a normal person, but you're not, Sherlock. You can stay up for days at a time and it barely has any effect on you.' He lent forward. 'Please tell me what's happened. You're worrying me an awful lot, okay?'

Sherlock's eyes flicked briefly towards the inspector. 'I…I think I've got a lead on this new case.'

'Sherlock, don't change the subject.'

The consultant looked shamefully down at his hands but said nothing.

Greg continued. 'I'm so so worried about you at the moment; it's making me feel ill. You haven't been like this, not for years. - Is someone threatening you?'

'No… No, of course not.'

'Then what's going on, Sherlock?! You lashed out at Anderson, okay; physically, and that's not you.' He sighed loudly, not getting any response. 'On Wednesday you broke down in tears in front of me, and it killed me and what you said to John, I'm surprised he's still here… You hurt him that day a lot more than he's letting on. I know you're hiding something and so does he. Please, please just…let me help you.'

'It's nothing-There _is_ nothing.'

Greg looked the detective over in silence, taking in every aspect of his countenance. 'Is there anything else you wanted to tell me?' he said after a minute.

Sherlock's eyes looked up from his mug. 'No.'

Greg laid his crossed arms on the table in front of him. 'You sure?'

'Sure,' the detective mumbled, pale finger tapping the edge of the ceramic.

Greg sighed again, dragging a hand through his hair as he stood up from the table. He walked to the sink, looking out of the window in front of him.

'…What was the dream about?''

'Just a weird thing… From - but it doesn't matter now.'

Greg pivoted on his heels, face lined with concern. He walked towards the detective, kneeling down beside his chair. 'Sherlock-'

'-It's not what you think.' Sherlock muttered.

'Sherlock, I mean it-'

'It's not.'

'Because you'd tell me if-'

'-Because I'd tell you if it was… I promise.'

'Come 'ere.' Greg looped an arm around the back of Sherlock's neck, pulling him in. 'I'm sorry for locking you in my office the other day.' He whispered. 'I forgot and I'm sorry. Please forgive me.'

Sherlock untangled himself from Greg's embrace, looking upon him with a sad smile. He held up his right hand, finger's spread wide. He waited for Greg to do the same, touching his fingertips to his. 'Forgiven.' He said quietly.

'Thank you.' Greg lowered his hand again. 'I think you'd better go to bed.'

Surprisingly, Sherlock complied. He stood up wordless, pushing his chair back before disappearing down the shadowed corridor.

As Greg heard Sherlock's bedroom door click shut he turned, resting all his weight on the kitchen counter. His head hung loosely, face twisted in anxiety. _'Shit.'_


	13. The Verisimilitude

**_Well, here's the new chapter. I'm not 100% sure about it but let me know what you think._**

* * *

'Good morning!'

John turned with a raised eyebrow at the sound of his flatmate's bright, happy voice. 'Good morning.' He replied. 'You're up early.'

'I am. I thought I may as well seize the day as I have it.'

John couldn't help but smirk to himself at this uncharacteristic comment. 'You still working on that case? What was it about?'

'The murdered law clerk and the missing briefcase?'

'Yeah, that one.'

'Yes, though I think I've nearly solved it.'

John looked up from his newspaper. 'And you didn't stay up all night to finish?! That's not like you.'

'Yes, well, my doctor told me to get some sleep and for once he was right.'

'Thank you, I think.'

Sherlock crossed the kitchen, a joyful whistle playing on his lips. John placed his paper on the table in front of him, folding his arms across his chest. He watched as his gangly flatmate reached into the cupboard at his head and pulling out a mug. Flicking the kettle on, the detective swayed towards the toaster, dropping two slices of bread into it. 'Would you like some John?' he voiced amicably.

The doctor was pulled from his trance-like concentration, caught somewhat off guard by his flatmates enquiry. 'Eh-no. Thanks, Sherlock. I've… already eaten.'

The detective gave a light shrug and continued about making his breakfast, dancing around gently to an unheard music. John sat back in his chair, short legs stretched beneath the table. He watched Sherlock's swaying movements. They were slow. Not particularly furtive. If anything they were clumsy. He'd dropped the butter knife twice _and_ nearly knocked over his empty mug with the side his arm. His co-ordination was poor. His fingers, shaky... Not something you typical see in your healthy human being. But then Sherlock has never been typical.

John narrowed his eyes before drawn in a sharp breath, leaning forward on his elbows. 'You're very jovial, Sherlock. Good night's sleep, was it?'

'Great!' the detective beamed. 'I haven't felt this good in a long time.'

'Well, in that case, perhaps you feel good enough to explain why you're lying to me?'

Sherlock stopped abruptly, flouncing hands coming to rest on the counter top. 'I'm not.' He said dejectedly glancing quickly out of the window before returning about his business.

John eyed the detective for a moment, watching him as spread his third layer of butter onto his toast. '…Sherlock?'

The detective didn't stop to look at his flatmate. 'Yes?'

John tried again. '…Sherlock?'

'Yes?'

'Sherlock, look at me.'

Slowly the detective put the knife in his hand down, turning reluctantly to face the doctor. John stood up from the table, traversing the space between him and the detective. He looked up into his flatmate's face with scrutiny. He was pale. Too pale for the mid-summer. Prominent shadows lingered under his eyes. He hadn't slept. A moron could see that.

'Sherlock, I know you didn't sleep well. Greg was here last night. You had a nightmare. He told me.'

Sherlock didn't say anything to this. He just bit into his lip, looking at the floor between his planted feet. John sighed, closing his eyes. 'Why didn't you just tell me?'

'Didn't think it mattered.' The detective mumbled, picking up his tea and walking into the living room. He crouched in one of the chairs holding the mug firmly between his two hands. 'I just thought it would be easier to say that I slept.'

'Easier for who?' The doctor said quietly. 'You or me?'

Sherlock didn't reply to this.

John looked across to the ceramic white and blue patterned plate that rested on the side by the kettle, an isolated expression lingering in his features. 'What was it about – your dream?'

'I don't really remember.' Sherlock mummered.

John just nodded bleakly. 'I've got to go to work.'

The Doctor got his coat from the hallway before returning to the kitchen to pick up his keys. He looked at Sherlock as he traced an index finger slowly round the edge of his porcelain mug. He walked into the living room, slowly lowering himself down next to the detective. 'Here.' He said softly, placing the abandoned plate of toast into his friend's lap. 'Eat the food. I'll be back later.' The doctor jumped up, snatching his phone from the nearest coffee table. 'Don't trash the kitchen!' He called over his shoulder. 'I rather like the look of an empty table.'

Sherlock watched his stout friend exit the room and descend the seventeen creaky wooden stairs to flat below. The detective sat silently for a moment as he heard the sound of the front door slamming shut. He placed the plate and mug in his hands on the desk beside him. Sherlock got up and crossed to the window, moving the curtain aside. He watched John cross the road and speed off down the street in the direction of the Tube station. Sherlock frowned. The doctor must be short on cash again, but then he hadn't been to work for past couple of weeks. _'Perhaps I should buy the groceries this week….'_ Sherlock thought, subconsciously biting at his thumb nail. That could wait until later. First he needed to tie up the ends of this case.

The morning has passed quickly. Sherlock had spent most of his time on the floor surrounded by hundreds of sheets of crumpled paper and dozens of glossy photographs. On occasion he had got up to look at the map of the city above the sofa in finer detail or to type something on his laptop that stood open on his desk. He always returned to the floor though; flicking through endless pages of evidence with a scrutinized expression. After three and a half hours of this repeated pattern, and two more cups of tea, he'd finally come to a conclusion. The detective got up, crossing the mottled room to the mantel piece. Picking up his mobile, his fingers rapidly tapped out a message to Lestrade.

Not the defendant, the judge; love affair. Upstairs wardrobe of his flat will be the briefcase.

-SH

With a weighty sigh, Sherlock replaced his fingerprinted phone on the shelf. He looked about the room; at mess he'd made on the floor, and took another deep breath…He needed to clear his head.

He walked towards the bathroom, stepping inside before closing the door with a small click. He fell back against the soft wood, closing his eyes. He needed space, space to breath: Time away from here. Just to run. Anything to forget the world for a couple minutes...

Sherlock slowly sunk to the floor. Pulling his navy blue t-shirt over his head and dropping it to the ground, the detective stared down at his wrist. Slowly he began unpicking the bandages that John had expertly wrapped around him. Unwinding the coarse, beige material, the detective winced, feeling the once banished throbbing pain appear again in his hand. The whole area around his wristed was a deep purple, but the wrist itself wasn't too bad. It didn't look quite so disfigured anymore. Sherlock didn't always appreciate how skilled John really was. His talent really was wasted at the day surgery.

The detective slowly stood up, removed the rest of his clothes and climbed into the shower, turning the hot tap up so the room began to fill with comforting, dewy steam. Sherlock hummed feeling an ecstasy of relief swayed over him as the warm water began to saturate his head, trickling down his face and back. Taking a deep breath, the detective tried to settle himself into the quieter, less cluttered portions of his mind, wandering with abandon in and out of random rooms, he decided on what information could likely be scrapped for its disuse, and what needed to be sorted and ordered elsewhere. By the time Sherlock had walked into this room… He found it was too late to get out.

…

 _Beneath the heavy white covers of his bed, Sherlock watched his older brother's face contort in concern. He wanted to look away from him but knew not to and was grateful when Mycroft finally turned his gaze to the floor with a sigh._

' _Sherlock, what really happened?'_

 _The young boy paused, holding his breath. What should he say? Mycroft knew he was lying. He always knew. The child, small and unsuspecting as he was, swallowed, lowering his head until he mumbled. 'It was Dad.'_

 _Mycroft face screwed up. The one thing he didn't want to hear. The eleven year old was accustom to Siger Holmes' wrath; often being on the receiving end of a fist whenever his rage got the better of him. He did well to hide the scars and bruises, leaving his younger brother blissfully unaware of risk his father posed. Their mother knew, but she didn't really care. She always dismissed the idea, pretending it wasn't happening._

' _And this, this is the first time? The first time he's hurt you?' The child said vapidly._

 _Sherlock nodded glumly._

' _Why did he do it?'_

 _Sherlock shrugged. 'I-I just got in his way. It was my fault.'_

 _Mycroft was quick to shake his head. 'No, Sherlock. It's not your fault. And I don't ever want to hear you say that again. He shouldn't have hit you, even if you were in his way.'_

 _Sherlock looked voicelessly at his feet, knotting his fingers together, face shrouded by his unruly black curls. Mycroft grasped Sherlock's hand in his, squeezing them tightly._

' _Listen to me…It's not your fault.'_

 _The four year old nodded, a single tear rolling down his pale face. 'I'm sorry.' He whispered._

 _Mycroft pulled his baby brother into an embrace. 'No, Sherlock. You have nothing to apologise for.'_

 _Just like that, Sherlock collapsed sobbing into his brother's shoulder. 'It was so scary, My!'_

 _Mycroft raised a hand, stroking the back of his head. 'I know, I know.' The eleven year old rocked his little brother ever so slightly in arms, soothing him into a less erratic breathing pace. 'Shhh. Shhh, it's okay. It's okay…I will never let him hurt you ever again, Sherlock. I promise.'_

 _There was a sudden knock. Both boys started; Sherlock gasping; their head's snapping together towards the door._

…

Sherlock was awoken from his thoughts by the curt sound of knuckles rapping on wood. He brushed the water from his face, removing from his head from the warming jet so as to hear better. It was silent, for a moment, but then he heard it again. Switching the water off, he quickly hopped out of the bath tub, wrapping a fluffy, white towel around waist.

'John?' The detective swiped another towel from the rack, scrubbing it over his head so as to make himself appear slightly more normal; hair looking uncharacteristically long with the weight of the water. If he cared enough he probably would have got it cut by now.

Sherlock opened the bathroom door, sticking his damp, fluffy mop into corridor. 'John?' He called out again. Brushing the hair from his eyes, his face was quick to fall. 'Oh, it's you.'

'Well nice to see you too, brother dear.'

Sherlock walked straight back into the bathroom. 'What do you want, Mycroft?'

'Am I not allowed to visit my younger sibling every now and then?' Mycroft said pushing the door to the bathroom open. A smile snagged at the corners of his typically pursed lips as he saw his younger brother hopping about in his towel, trying to pull a sock on.

'Eh, do you mind!' Sherlock huffed, awkwardly slamming the door closed on his impeccably dressed brother. '-And, no, you always want something, even if that something is to lecture me which is what I feel is coming.'

Mycroft sighed. 'You know I'm surprised you didn't work out it was me at the front door; easily deducible by the weight and time duration between knocks.'

'You know Mycroft, maybe it's because I don't care enough to deuce every little thing I encounter unlike some Obsessive Compulsive harbourer in a three piece suit.' Sherlock stuck his head aggressively back out into the hallway. 'Or maybe I just assumed it couldn't possibly be you because you never knock.' The detective slammed the door again. 'That term of politeness seems to have escaped you!' He called shrewdly. He could almost hear his brother's eye roll.

'And a mild disposition you.' Mycroft responded tightly, suppressed irritation blatantly evident in his voice.

'Charmed, I'm sure.' The detective sang back.

Mycroft sighed, giving up his typical gallantry pretence. The politician resting a shoulder on the wall beside the door, folding his arms across his chest. Arguing like this wasn't going to get them anywhere. 'What's been going on, Sherlock?'

'Surely, you already know.' The detective replied bleakly.

'It's polite to ask.'

'Oh, his manners have come back!'

'Sherlock-'

'Looks like he _can_ remember his lesson's from school.'

' _Sherlock-'_

'Or home…' the Chemist said quietly.

Mycroft gave another sigh. This time Sherlock was the one to roll his eyes. 'What are you doing here anyway?!' he snapped irritably.

'Checking to see if you're alright.' Mycroft breathed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

'Of course, I'm alright! Why wouldn't I be?!'

' _Sherlock, for goodness-'_ Mycroft stopped as the door to the bathroom suddenly flew open. Sherlock stood before his brother clutching a pile of folded clothes to his chest with one hand and the towel at his waist in the other, wild, damp raven curls flopping forward, masking one pallid blue eye. 'Can you move? I wish to get to my room.'

The Politician held his brother's gaze, as if by look alone he could get through to him. After a moment, realizing the futility of such an act, he stood from the wall and shifted out of the way. 'I'll go and make some tea.'

'Who says you're staying that long?' muttered Sherlock, sauntering past him, walking into his room and giving the door a kick with his heal.

The detective waited for his brother's patent, leather Oxford's to pace away towards the kitchen before he began getting dressed. Putting his dirty clothes into a steadily overflowing basket, he padded across to his tall, pine wood wardrobe, pulling out a clean shirt and a pair of trouser. Swiftly dressing, he pulled on his blue satin dressing gown and gave himself a once over in the mirror. Seeing his own reflection now, Sherlock could see why the Doctor had not believed him this morning.

His under eyes were coloured a bruise like purple. His face co-ordinated with the rest of his body; looking that tiny bit too gaunt and, he was, undoubtedly pale. He knew he needed to eat. He knew he needed to sleep. But the detective just couldn't find the motivation. Sighing, he tied the edges of his over-garments together and set off towards the kitchen.

When he got there, Sherlock found Mycroft sitting in one of the chair at the table… The one John typically sat in… The detective couldn't help suddenly feel a surge of contempt fester within him. With a taut expression, Sherlock took the seat opposite his brother, pulling the tea filled cup that had been set out for him in towards his chest. 'Well?' he huffed impatiently.

Mycroft took a small sip of his tea and for the second time in the past ten minutes Sherlock found himself rolling his eyes. 'You know I haven't got all day.'

Mycroft seemed to find something in this comment comical which only made Sherlock frown. Eventually the politician put the china down, crossing one leg on top of the other. 'How would you like me to do this?' He said starkly. 'Delicately or directly?'

'For God sake, Mycroft! I'm not a child. I. Won't. Break.'

Mycroft drew in an audible breath through his nose. 'Have it your way...' The politician shuffled in his seat. 'It's about Sherringford.'

Sherlock paused, gaze, he knew, faltering momentarily. 'What about him?'

'His funeral's tomorrow.'

Sherlock blinked and Mycroft just took this as a sign to continue.

'Two o'clock. Tomorrow afternoon. St Martin's Church.'

'Fine.' The detective said sharply, barley letting his brother get to the end of his sentence.

Silence sat between them both for a moment.

'Sherlock, this is an honest question now so I want you to answer me honestly.' The politician said softly. 'How are you coping at the moment?'

Sherlock's head snapped up to meet his brother's gaze. 'I'm perfectly fine.' he said tightly. Mycroft reached forward, loosening Sherlock's fingers on his china cup, noticing his knuckles going white. 'That's not what I asked.' He said quietly.

'I'm fine!' The detective snapped, standing up. 'And now that's over with, you can go.'

Mycroft sighed. 'That's not the only reason I'm here.'

The detective groaned dramatically, walking away from the table towards the living room. 'Let me guess, one of your dopey, governmental, Eton Messes have lost some of MI6's paraphernalia and you need me to find it!'

'Nothing quite that fanciful, Sherlock, but undoubtedly more serious.' The politician replied standing up from the table. He crossed into the living room, watching as his brother picked at one of the thin, steel strings on his violin. A thoughtful expression on his face crossed his face. 'Do you remember when I got you that?'

'Of course,' Sherlock said solemnly. 'Eighteenth birthday.'

'Quite a day…'

'Quite.'

The pair of them stood in an unspoken, but mutually agreed, silence, both residing themselves to their own thoughts.

'You're keeping secrets from the people you usually talk to.' Mycroft said quietly. Sherlock looked up but said nothing. Mycroft continued, knowing that he wasn't going to get a response from his brother. 'Doctor Watson said you broke your wrist…May I see?'

Sherlock stepped away from Mycroft's outstretched hand. 'No. I don't know what you're talking about.'

Mycroft rolled his eyes. 'Can we not do this? Please? I just want to make sure you're okay.'

'I have a doctor for flat mate.' Sherlock spat sarcastically.

'And he would have been none the wiser had you not accidentally dropped your violin!' Mycroft's patience was evidently dwindling. 'Why did you not tell him?!'

'I wasn't hurt, Mycroft! I didn't have anything to tell him!'

The politician went to move forward but paused mid step as he saw Sherlock suddenly shrink away from him. Momentarily taken aback by this, he frowned. 'Sherlock…' His tone was strong but in a strange way soft. 'This is silly, just show me.'

The detective straightened up to his full height in an act of defiance. This caused Mycroft to let out and audible breath. He looked nonchalantly down at his shoes before eyeing his brother again. 'Sherlock if you have nothing to hide you have nothing to fear. If you're not hurt you have no reason to abstain from showing me your wrist.'

Sherlock began to back away. 'No.'

' _Oh, for goodness sake.'_ Mycroft crossed the dimly lit, cluttered room in no more than four strides. Sherlock scuttled backwards but quickly hit the wall behind him. He twisted as the politician lunged for his wrist. _'No, no, no, no!-Ah!'_ Sherlock seethed as his brother caught hold of him. He wrenched his arm away. Mycroft looked condemningly at his sibling, quirking an eyebrow at him. 'Are we done now?'

Seeing that there was no way to mash the truth anymore, Sherlock conceded with a dejected sigh. He held out his wrist. Mycroft took the hand in his, gently turning it over. His eyes flickered momentarily over the joint before coming up to meet his brother's in an entangled distress. 'It's broken.' He murmured.

Sherlock nodded. _'In three places.'_ they hummed together.

Without warning, Mycroft suddenly grabbed Sherlock by both shoulders and dragged him towards the sofa. Sitting him down, the politician knelt down in front of his brother, staring at him straight in the eye. 'Sherlock, if he's back you have to tell me and you have to tell me now.' The politician's tone was uncharacteristically rushed.

Sherlock tried to pull his arms away but Mycroft only held them tighter. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'Sherlock, please, this isn't a game!'

It was silent for a moment. Sherlock looked up into his brother's steely grey eyes. 'No.' He said eventually. 'If "he's" who I think you're talking about…then no.'

Mycroft looked disappointingly down at his feet, closing his eyes. He looked almost as if he was in pain and in that brief moment, Sherlock felt as if he was twelve again.

The detective looked down sharply, feeling spindly finger's close around his. He looked back up at Mycroft. He was… He looked almost like…There was a strange sort of sincerity Sherlock had not seen in him in a very long time. It was unsettling. The politician squeezed his little brother's finger tips. 'Sherlock… Please let me help you.'

Sherlock found himself getting unsteadily to his feet 'No. No, you're wrong.' He said, slowly shaking his head.

 _What am I going to do?! He wanted to cry…To just fall onto his brother's shoulder and tell him everything; everything that's happened, everything that was going on his uncontrollable head… But he couldn't…Mycroft would surely go after him. He would get hurt. Father would come back and punish him for telling him. And what would happen if he went after John? Or Molly? An act of revenge. What if Lestrade found out?_

Mycroft could see the conflict in his brother's eyes. 'Sherlock…?' He placed a hand on his brother's shoulder but Sherlock flinched away again. 'Tell me what you're thinking.' He whispered.

Sherlock lightly shook his head. He sank down on to the edge of the sofa, eyes fixed on the floor a few feet ahead of him. Mycroft crouched down in front of him, gently taking hold of his arms. 'Sherlock, you've been lying to me... ever since I've arrived. Please, _please_ tell me the truth. I want to help you.'

Something in Sherlock suddenly snapped. _'I don't need your help!'_ he spat. The detective gave his brother a sharp shove, causing him to almost tumble backwards. 'You've finally lost it, Mycroft! The power's finally gone to your head and made you delusional!' Sherlock got up storming towards the window. The British government climbed up off of the floor, glaring at his brother. 'Sherlock, stop it! That's enough! Look, you may have Doctor Watson fooled but not me, not for one minute so you're going to drop this idiotic, lackadaisical attitude right now because I'm not having it!'

Sherlock's shoulders sunk, head coming to rest against the wall beside him. All the bitter energy that had only moments ago possessed him into wanton actions had all but abandoned him. Sighing, Mycroft walked up behind him, allowing his frustration to melt. He placed a hand on either of Sherlock's arms, resting his chin upon his left shoulder. The pair stared at their reflections in the window bleakly.

' _How did we get so old so fast?'_ Sherlock whispered.

'I don't know...' Mycroft replied quietly. '…Sherlock...? How many times?

'…Just the once.'

'Your wrist?'

'Yes.'

'Did he do… anything else?'

Sherlock looked at his brother's wary face, reflected within the glass. 'No.'

Mycroft nodded. 'Okay… Alright. Thank you… Thank you for telling me.'

' _Well, isn't that lovely.'_

The brother's both jumped at this sudden, intruding voice. Mycroft thought he was going to have to have to catch his younger brother he turned pale so quickly. Their heads snapped simultaneously towards the door. Mycroft felt a dread settle over him. He tried to reach for Sherlock, to ground him, support him, knowing his mind was undoubted falling into a state of disarraying panic, but he couldn't. He couldn't move, couldn't reach. He only just managed to get a hold of his tone for long enough to address the broad figure standing in the doorway before him. 'Father.'

* * *

 **So... How was it? I'm still not convinced. It's the summer holidays for me soon though so hopefully I'll get a lot more written. Is there anything you particularly want to see or a direction you want this to go? Just let me know! Until the next time ;)**


	14. If You Know What's Good For You

_**Here's the next one. I hope it's okay. I feel a little bit better about this one (If hesitant because I feel repetitive. I'll try and break that habit.) Thank you to those of you how reviewed last time. My responses are down the bottom :) x**_

* * *

Siger Holmes bore a wickedly exuberant grin as he looked upon his two sons. 'Sherlock,' He sang fondly, spreading his arms wide. 'And dearest Mycroft; it's been an age since I saw you last. Haven't you grown up.'

The politician's expression was completely juxtaposed to that of his father's. His lips were pinched, a raging fire, breathing up from behind his eyes. 'What. Do you want?' Mycroft spat between clenched teeth. Their father's face dropped into an expression of mock disappointment. 'I just wanted to see poor Sherlock. I heard he had an accident; broke his wrist; nasty business.'

Mycroft's face turned red. 'Don't call him that!' he snapped. 'William is the name you gave him. Use it.'

'I thought Sherlock was the name he went by now?'

The false ignorance laced within Siger's voice made Mycroft want to scream. 'He's not Sherlock to you.'

'We'll that's not particularly kind. The political life has made you cold, Mycroft.'

'Just get out.' He growled, pointing a taut arm towards the door. Mycroft's face though suddenly changed as his father took a step forward. He grabbed Sherlock's wrist, pulling him protectively behind him. 'I said leave.' His tone was dangerously low.

Siger gave a lopsided frown. 'But we barley had a chance to speak last time. I was hoping we could have a bit more, bonding time.'

Mycroft disliked the short but noticeable pause in his father's sentence. What worried him more, however was Sherlock's silence. Since their father had entered the room he had stared passively at the ground, not uttering a single word in his own defense.

'Get out now.' He growled.

The politician thought he was holding out firmly but as soon as his father began to pace further into the room, he found himself taking an involuntary step back. Scolding himself , he re-enforced his voice against his father's movements. 'Get out or I'll have the entirety of Scotland Yard here in a matter of seconds.'

Siger stopped, merely smiling at this, or rather, smiling at Sherlock. This made the detective shy away into himself, shrinking even closer behind his brother. The elder man gave a small disregarding shake of his head before begin to pace across the room again, treading on the array of case files that littered the floor as if they weren't even there.

'You know, if I didn't know you any better Mycroft, I'd say you were threatening me.'

Mycroft gave a snide smirk. 'On the contrary… Not a threat; just some friendly advice.' His gaze darkened. 'However, if the shoe fits…'

Siger's wagering expression, in a moment, vanished. Mycroft started as he suddenly felt his brother's terrified grip on his fingers. The politician raised his chin in an act of defiance as their father rapidly encroached upon them both, toes now almost touching his own. The elder man smiled, snuffing out a laugh in his elder son's face, finding amusement in his display of courage. 'Someone got brave.' His smile dulled, tone losing all it's mirth. 'Mycroft… Step aside.'

The politician threw a passing glance at his younger brother, feeling the grip on his fingers increase in strength. 'No.' he said diligently, turning back to face his father; fronting him with a stern glare. Siger sighed before leaning forward, thin, pale lips hovering beside his son's ear. 'Don't make me hurt you as well, Mycroft.' He whispered with a sigh. Mycroft stiffened as behind him he heard his little brother's breath hitch in his throat. He pulled away from his father. 'No. No, I won't let you hurt him.'

Siger placed his hands in his trouser pockets, rocking back on his heels. 'Mycroft, do you remember what happened last time you decided you were going to fend for your brother?'

…

 _October, 1987._

 _Bitter, blustery winds yanked at the ends of Mycroft's pinstriped, grey, school blazer as he ran head long down the lengthy stretch of gravel towards the Holmes' Manor; navy blue scarf flapping wildly over his right shoulder as he went. Crisp, brown, autumn leaves swirled and swooped through the air. It was late October now so the daylight was getting sparse in the evenings but the thirteen year old still had just enough to see the ground in front of him._

 _The trees above his head swayed manically to and fro; their branches creating a harsh hushing sound as they ruffled past one another. Mycroft couldn't help but feel somewhat anxious, alone in the darkness. It wasn't the dark itself he feared. No, because nobody's scared of the dark… They're scared of what's in it. The fact you could never be quite sure who, or what, could be lurking in the shadows night provided. He could feel his heart hammering, quicker and quicker, in his rib cage; the blood pulsating through his veins; the over-whelming sensation of someone chasing him taking control of his brain. Why was he so afraid? No one was really there…Were they?_

 _A wave of relief washed over him, when he cleared the woodland and caught sight of the warming lights at the windows of his house. He put on an extra boot of energy and powered on up the drive way. Stumbling up the stone steps, he clumsily shoved the key into the lock and fumbled inside, kicking the door shut again with his foot. The teenager fell back against the door, head resting against the wood. His breaths heaved rapidly in and out of his chest. He was being ridiculous. There was nothing outside. Mycroft bit his lip in an attempt to tame his jittery nerves. This couldn't keep happening. He was letting his mind running away with him again. It had to stop. Swallowing, he dragged a hand across his face, drawing himself back up to his full height. 'Get a hold of yourself, Mycroft.'_

 _As his breathing softened, Mycroft realised how quiet the house was. This isn't good… Slowly, the child moved forward a few paces, footsteps echoing off the polished floors. This really isn't good… The only time silence ever fell across the household was ether when their parents had been arguing or when one of them had lashed out at Sherlock. Mycroft just prayed it wasn't the latter. The teenager dropped his satchel to the ground and rushed towards the stairs, balanced on his toes to minimize the amount of noise he produced. Hopping up two at time, he swiftly made it upstairs, quickly turning back to make sure nobody had heard him. His speed walk soon turned into a jog as he navigated his way through winding corridors to find his brother's room. 'Sherlock,' he whispered frantically, tapping on the bedroom door. 'Sherlock, are you in there?' Not hearing a reply he stuck his head inside._

 _His six year old was lying on his bed, a pillow wrapped firmly around his head. Mycroft edged further into the room. 'Sherlock, are you okay?'_

 _Sherlock's eyes snapped open fearfully. Seeing his elder brother, he relaxed, removing the cushion from his head. 'What?' he asked nimbly._

' _I said "Are you okay?'"_

 _Sherlock only nodded._

' _What happened?' he asked, closing the door, coming to sit on the edge of the bed._

' _Mum and Dad were fighting again.'_

' _Did they start throwing things again?'_

 _He nodded again, glumly._

' _But you're okay, yeah?'_

' _Yes.'_

' _You're not hurt?'_

 _The eleven year old shook his head._

 _Mycroft breathed a sigh of relief._

 _The pair sat there in silence for a few minutes, both lost in the thoughts and memories of the previous arguments that had taken place in this house; sorrow in their eyes as they also remembered the consequences. It was Sherlock, though, who first broke the sullenness._

' _Mycroft…?'_

 _Mycroft dragged his gaze back to the land of the living. In his daze, he hadn't noticed his little brother had joined him at his side._

' _Do you think Mummy and Daddy are going to split up?'_

 _The thirteen year old didn't know how to answer this question. In one part, his mind wanted that to happen; for the noise and brutality to stop. But then of course they are his parents. Mycroft responded only with a weak smile but Sherlock knew what that meant. He sighed and rested his tightly curled head on his brother's shoulder._

 _Mycroft hated seeing his brother caught up in all this drama. He was so young. He shouldn't have to deal with tension and fear in a place he's supposed to feel safe. He was optimistic, always, though. That was one thing he admired about Sherlock, though he could see beneath the happy exterior he was a scared, lonely child._

 _Mycroft looked sadly down at his brother. He was staring off into the middle distance again. He had to cheer him up somehow. Mycroft lent across the mattress and plucked a hat off the nearest bed post. He dropped it onto Sherlock's head. Sherlock looked up inquisitively. A pirate hat! The child looked at his brother with big eyes. Mycroft now stood before him, sword brandished in hand. 'Avast, Captain Sherlock, you'll never take me alive!'_

' _That's what you think, Marauder Mycroft. I'm the best pirate whom ever lived! You'll never get away from me!' Sherlock snatched up a foam cutlass from the nearby umbrella stand and chased his elder sibling from the room._

 _The pair charged through the twisting, winding corridors of the mansion, screaming after one another. Sprinting down the main flight of stairs, Mycroft turned to face the infamous Captain Sherlock. 'End of the line, Sherlly! Say your prayers!' Mycroft flashed his sword, fencing Sherlock into the corner of the entrance hall. The child quickly retaliated though, knocking the blade from his opponent's hand. He smirked. 'I don't think so, Mr Holmes!'_

 _Sherlock moved in devilry towards him. 'I have you now!'_

' _Don't speak so soon, Captain!'_

 _Mycroft turned to run; a final attempt at escape. However, neglecting to see his school bag lying on the ground, he tripped, both feet knotting together. Mycroft would of just managed to hold his balance if it wasn't for his brother slamming into his back. The two children fell to the floor, landing in an awkward heap. Quickly pulling himself up onto his knees, Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's arms, pinning him to the tiles. 'Ha-HA!' He exclaimed. 'I said you'd never catch me!' With that, the teenager began to tickle the child beneath him. Sherlock burst out in a fit of giggles. This, in turn, made Mycroft break out into a besotted laughter._

 _The laughing didn't last long though… The door to their father's study was suddenly thrown open. It was with such force, the pair were silenced with shock; heads cocked towards the sound._

' _What's going on?!' came a deep, angered voice. Their father's broad shadow blocked the dull light that was streaming in through the doorway. The boy's quickly unhanded each other as Siger Holmes strode towards them. Before Sherlock had even had the chance to stand, Master Holmes had grabbed the child by the scruff of the neck and hauled him to his feet._

 _Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut, dreading the sharp sound that would likely follow._

' _What do you think you're doing?!' growled the predecessor._

' _I- I, we-' Sherlock stammered, trying distance himself from his father's vicious hands._

' _Get it out!' barked Siger, shaking his son._

 _Fear gripped Sherlock's throat. No matter how hard he tried the words wouldn't come out._

 _Mycroft jumped to his feet, running to his brother's side._

' _We were playing. Bored - It was my idea. Sherlock just went along with it. He hasn't done anything wrong.'_

' _Ha! A likely story,' Siger spat. Their father turned back on Sherlock pulling him up so that his toes barely scrapped the ground. 'What have a told you about playing games, hmm? Running about in the house?'_

 _Mycroft pulled at his father's arm. 'Honestly!' He protested. 'Sherlock had nothing to do with this! Don't hit him, please!'_

 _Siger head twisted towards Mycroft. He snarled, slowly rounding on the teenager. Oh no…_

 _His grip dropped from Sherlock and the child fell to the floor. He paced nonchalantly towards his second child. Mycroft shuffled backward until his he couldn't move any further back meeting the cool brickwork wall. His father continued to encroach. He didn't stop until he was almost nose to nose with his second eldest son. Mycroft could feel his warm breath on his skin. He bit into his lip as he watched his father's strong, right hand rise gently to his head and his fingers slip leisurely through his tousled, ginger hair. Goosebumps ran down Mycroft's skinny, pale arms to feel his father's touch. A fearful whimper escaped his lips as the adult's grip began to rapidly tighten on his auburn strands._

' _Then tell me, Mycroft,' the elder man whispered tightly. 'Why were you and Sherlock shouting and running about the house?"_

' _I-I don't know, sir.' The tension of which Siger held the stings suddenly grew and with that, the pain. Mycroft couldn't help but draw a sharp breath._

' _Don't lie to me.' hissed Mr Holmes. 'WHY WERE YOU SHOUTING?!'_

 _Mycroft tried to recoil from his father's barking words but had nowhere to go. 'Playing! Just trying to pass the time!' he cried, struggling to free the grip on his hair._

' _Well, how about we play a game then, Mycroft? Huh? Just you and me?'_

 _Mycroft only stared at his father, holding his breath, too afraid to speak._

' _How about for every outcry I get from you, you get a cracked rib…? And for every tear… a broken one?' Siger drew a tantalizing finger across the teenager's cheek bone causing him to flinch away again. '… Sound fair?_

 _Mycroft showed no response, though his hands were now visibly shaking._

' _No…? Well how about we let Sherlock play as well then? After all he was involved.'_

 _Mycroft almost lunged forward when his father turned towards his little brother. 'No! Just me and you! Leave, Sherlock alone.'_

' _Are you sure? I mean, you wouldn't want to leave him out, would you?'_

 _The younger Holmes tried to nod the best he could, his father's hand still knotted through his hair._

' _Well, if you're sure…' Siger drew out patronizingly._

' _Yes.' Mycroft sibilated. 'Yes, I'm sure.'_

' _Fine then, the rules are simple. I ask a question, you answer it. Fail to answer, face the consequence. Clear?'_

 _Mycroft closed his eyes, nodding defeatedly._

' _Good…' His father grinned._

 _Sherlock squeaked from his place on the floor. 'No, My, don't.'_

 _Mycroft cast his eyes across the room to his little brother. 'Just go.' He whispered weakly. '…I'll be alright.'_

…

There was an ugly silence. Mycroft's head slowly sank to chest. The politician released his brother's hand, untangling Sherlock's long fingers from his own. The detective tried to grab the politician's sleeve he stepped aside. 'No – No, Mycroft.' Sherlock's voice was restricted to stay in his throat, a panic woven look finding it's place in his features as he looked between his grinning father and defeated brother walking away from him towards the fireplace. 'Mycroft, please…' Sherlock's voices coming out in no more than a whisper. He looked desperately towards his brother but his eyes were closed, face was seized in anguished…He was gone now.

Sherlock turned with a new sense fear towards his father, whose full attention was now on him. Siger glided forward, slowly, like a snake to unsuspecting pray. 'I can't remember for the life of me where we left off.' the elder man cooed.

Sherlock subconsciously began to walk backwards but stopped, feeling the edge of John's desk collide with the back of his thighs. His heart began palpitating in his chest. The detective grimaced. He could feel his father's warm breath on his face. Sherlock squeaked, squeezing his eyes shut as his father's fingers danced clumsily at his broken wrist. Siger smiled, letting out a short, almost feminine laugh. 'Ah, of course…' He was clearly fantasizing over his son's discomfort. 'Thank you for reminding me.' With that, he clasped his son's hand, yanking it sharply towards the ground. Mycroft's face twisted as he heard his brother cry out agonisingly. Sherlock doubled over clasping his wrist to his chest. _'Christ.'_ He breathed sharply, gritting his teeth.

' _Oh, don't be so dramatic.'_ The predecessor drooled.

'I hate you.' The detective seethed through gritted teeth.

Siger began to circle Sherlock in a predatory manner. 'Who are you taking to this time, Freak, me or your brother?'

Sherlock said nothing but couldn't help his gaze from falling on his elder brother. Mycroft's face crumpled as Sherlock made eye contact him, head turning painfully away. Siger had noticed this and giggled gleefully. 'Never mind, old dear. I'm sure it's nothing personal - Is it, Sherlock?'

Sherlock was too unfocused to reply, a firm hold still on his wrist as he tried to dull the intense throbbing pain that seemed to intensify with every beat of his pounding heart.

Siger rolled his eyes. He reached down, grasping Sherlock by the throat, smooth, calm expression suddenly turning to a seething one. 'Look at me when I'm talking to you!' he snapped. He pulled his son upwards and Sherlock's hands immediately followed, trying to prize his father away.

'You've not got anything against your brother, have you?'

Sherlock tried to shake his head but found that he couldn't move so he had to force out an answer instead. _'No… nothing.'_

'See Mycroft; he doesn't really hate you, just a brotherly tiff.'

Mycroft wouldn't open his eyes, just continued to face the floor, a grimace fixed upon his lips.

Siger turned back to his youngest son. 'So, Sherlock,' He said airily. 'Do you still do that queer magic trick?'

Sherlock frowned awkwardly, still trying to prize his dad's hands from his neck. 'I don't know what you mean.'

'You know where you take one look at someone and tell them everything about them.'

'It-it's not a trick.' Sherlock stammered.

'I've heard you've made a living out of it. What is it that you call yourself?'

Sherlock stared contemptuously at his father, lips forming a thin line. '…A consulting detective.' He said curtly.

'A consulting detective!' Siger laughed mockingly, looking between his two sons with a hysterical expression. 'What can you deuce about me then, Sherlock Holmes?'

'That, you've got a date tonight, that you've recently got a new lover…and that she's young. – Can, can you remove your hands?' Sherlock said distractedly. 'I-I'm having a hard time getting enough - right now.' Sherlock was tried to uphold a strong, defiant tone but anxiety was the better of him. Siger patted the detective on the shoulder with his spare hand.

'No, you're alright. Just keep going.'

'Yes, well , um, young lover, likely to be a gold digger but you don't care. To you it's the equivalent of a friend with benefits.'

'Not that you'd understand any of that, Sherlock.' Siger cut in bluntly.

Sherlock ignored this, too busy suppressing his sense of rising panic. 'You've come into a bit of money in recent days. You've been betting again, and winning for a change, which accounts for that new silver watch on… on your left wrist…' Sherlock words were growing fainter as he spoke. 'Really now, Father, could you let go. I-I-I can't-'

'No, you just go right on ahead.'

Sherlock shook his head but reluctantly continued as his father gave him a sharp glare. 'This lover of yours, you don't really love her. You're trying- you're using her to make someone… jealous…' Sherlock stopped glancing nervously over at his brother.

'Come on, Sherlock. Why did you stop?' Siger chirped, giving his son a light shake.

'You, you've heard enough.'

'On the contrary, I'm rather enjoying you're little spiel.'

'I don't know any more…'

Mycroft's head snapped up fearfully as Sherlock suddenly let out a strangled gasp. His father's hands were now both clasped firmly around the young detective's neck. The politician took a paralyzing step forward. _'Father…'_

Sherlock choked as his feet were drawn away from the ground. He scrambled helplessly at his throat, tugging at his father's ever tightening fingertips.

'But I could try!' he squeaked, trying to distant himself from the brooding man before him. 'You're not trying to make someone jealous. You feel envious yourself but you want to make the person you're envious of, envious of you. You're setting up an idyllic like pretence so as to make your life look that much better without the person in question, but it's not, which is perhaps why you're trying to make them jealous. It's one of the more fatalistic characteristics in the human condition.' Sherlock's words came out in an almost incoherent rush, getting faster and faster, barely finishing one word before beginning the next. 'It has to be someone important. You wouldn't waste so much time and money on a petty feud. This is someone you cared about deeply, long ago; Mother. – _Father, please!'_

Mycroft started towards the pair. 'Dad, dad, stop.' The plea fell on deaf ears.

'You think you're so clever, William. Do you actually think you impress anyone with that pathetic little trick of yours?'

Sherlock gave no response, knees beginning to fold beneath him. Panic seized the politician's throat.'Dad, he can't breathe. _Father, please!'_

Mycroft's father merely laughed at this. It made him feel sick. Mycroft's attention was however suddenly thrown back on Sherlock as his body faulted, pulling in a hideous, rasping breath. Mycroft leapt forward. 'No, no, father that's enough! Stop!' Mycroft pulled at his father's arms, trying to free Sherlock's throat, his eyelids beginning to flutter.

'Father _!_ _Stop!_ ' Mycroft froze as his little brother's head suddenly lulled forward. 'Sherlock…?' Mycroft's uncertain, timid voice coincided with his terrified expression. He turned upon his father. Siger quirked a lip at his elder son before dropping Sherlock to the floor like a piece of litter, the satin dressing gown he'd been wearing folding randomly around him. Mycroft immediately fell to his knees, taking his brother's face in his hands. 'Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?' He tapped his face, other hand fumbling awkwardly at his right wrist for a pulse. 'Come on, wake up for me.' The politician started as a heavy hand landed on his shoulder.

'I think it's time we went for a walk, don't you?' came his father's cool, firm voice. It was emotionless. No one would be able to have guessed what he had just done.

The politician fought against the hold, trying to reach for his brother, but came to a forceful stop receiving a sudden sharp jab to the abdomen. He doubled over, gasping as his father's arm suddenly looped around his neck, yanking him forward.

'If you know what's good for you, you'll leave him.' the slightly shorter man hissed into his ear. Mycroft swallowed, looking down towards his brother. He closed his eyes, swallowing down hard on the lump forming in his throat. Conceding, his father hauled him swiftly from the room, leaving the detective for dead on the floor of his London apartment.

* * *

 _ **So, that was that... I feel quite wicked. (And not in the amelioration sense) I'm kinda worried how sick minded I am, and I only feel it's going to get worse. Tell me what you thought/what you want to see happen next. I've got a few ideas but I'm happy to hear what you guys have to say; my faithful readers. Shock blankets from this point on will be handed out for anyone who feels it necessary ;) x**_

REVIEW ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

 **paula. -** I want to see that too! And I sort of went for it in this chapter but I didn't follow though because I want to take the pair on a real emotional rollercoaster. I've got quite a few chapters to go. Will Mycroft ever fight for Sherlock... Wait and see ;)

 **Oayumi0 -** I hope this was quick enough. I do feel a little evil, keep leaving everything on cliff hanger but I love to tease ;) Thank you for always reviewing.

 **PiercedBlueCat -** Wow! You've been busy reviewing. Thank you for that! It's good to have someone tracking along, continually saying I'm doing a good job. It occationally makes me believe I actually am. No one's ever commented upon my writing style before - and possitively! - that was really refreshing, thank you. I too love the Mycroft, Sherlock trust relationship... although I fear I may have just broke that... It is something I shall be exploring.

 **Aubrey Cortez -** Speculation is half of the fun! (I know that review was for Chapter One but I figured you'd make it here.- Unless you think the story is really bad! -so I'll just say thank you here. ) THANK YOU!


	15. A Reluctant Trip

**_I've literally spent the past five minutes hyperventilating wordlessly over the new Sherlock S4 trailer. I can't cope right now. What with the 'Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them' trailer and the 'Doctor Strange' trailer - I just need it to be November already! What Molly said and what Mrs Hudson practically spat at Mycroft and the hospital bed and the nurses and Sherlock's terrified face. THIS NEW SERIES WILL KILL ME! If you haven't watched it, GO WATCH IT NOW! Then we can all discuss survival techniques. *Breathes out* Well, yes, anyway. Enjoy the new chapter._**

* * *

John kicked the front door closed with the heel if his foot, shutting himself against the day's sunlight into the cool, dimly lit entrance hall of 221B. Throwing his keys on varnished oak table to his left, the doctor pushed out a wary breath and began to trudge up the seventeen bowing, wooden steps to the flat he shared with the consulting detective above.

John called out his flatmate's name as he reached the town house's first floor landing. The detective's coat was still hanging on one of the hooks where he had left it yesterday, as was his navy blue scarf, indicating to the doctor that Sherlock was still pottering around the flat somewhere. John kicked off his shoes, calling his flatmates name again. Walking into the kitchen, the doctor placed his work rucksack on the top of the surprisingly still uncluttered table. John unzipped his jacket and placed it on the back of one of the kitchen chair.

It was quiet. The only sound to be heard was the persistent droning buzz of the fridge and the light ruffle of heavy fabric as the lengthy curtains hanging by the open windows wavered occasionally in the beating breeze. The doctor clicked his tongue a few times, unsure of what to do with himself. He wasn't used to this much quiet. He found it strangely disconcerting. He looked down the hallway towards the detective's bedroom to see it vacant and then across to the living room to see it equally as empty, if rather messy. John frowned to himself, residing to make a cup of tea before phoning the detective on his mobile.

Filling the transparent kettle, John rested lazily against the pavement grey granite counter top, arms folded across his chest. He sniffed, casting his eyes to the floor before looking across the threshold to at the up turned state of the flat.

 _How does one man make such a mess in a few measly hours?_

There seemed to be everything. Books, papers, cardboard folders, maps, pictures, case files, mugs, a sofa cushion, evidence bags; the evidence among them being a pair of NHS style 1980's men's glasses, a mobile phone and… _a hand?_ John leaned forward with a squint not sure whether to believe his eyes or not.

 _If he's started leaving severed hands lying around I'm gonna loose it!_

Scowling, the ex-army medic crossed the kitchen into the living room. His anger quickly melted, blood suddenly running cold. _Oh my God…_

The doctor leapt forward onto the thread bare carpet floor, kneeling beside his flatmate who lay unconscious in an ill-orderly heap. He quickly snatched up his flimsy wrist searching for a pulse. 'Sherlock? Sherlock can you hear me?' John swept the detective's curls out of his face searching for a reaction in his sickly features. 'Sherlock?'

The detective's pulse was weak but thankfully there. The doctor put and ear to his friend's chest to find his breathing was shallow, sounding almost restricted. He quickly undid the top few button of Sherlock's shirt and straightened out his limbs. He took his friend's hand again, keeping track of his heart rate. 'Sherlock? Sherlock, if you hear my voice can you just squeeze my fingers for me?' He tried to keep the panic from rising in his voice, feeling only relief as Sherlock's fingers brushed his thumb. 'Okay, okay that's great. I think you're hypoglycemic, Sherlock, so I need to get a glucagon injection in you. I'm going to keep talking so you know that I'm still around, okay? But I have to go and get it.'

John quickly got up, dashing into the kitchen, counting, later he realized, upwards in multiples of seven. Standing on his toes, he reached up into the top of one of the cupboards pulling down a small, light green, plastic box. He'd kept the box handy knowing that one of these days his un-functioning flat mate might just let his blood sugar drop too low; hiding it high up in the hope Sherlock wouldn't in fact find the solutions and start conducting experiments with them.

He swept back into the living room, falling to his knees again. 'Right, Sherlock, I'm just getting a syringe out. It's got a twenty gram, fifty percent solution of C6H12O6 to H2O, alright, and its hopeful going to spike blood sugar and get your insulin levels working enough to get you in a fully conscious state. Then we'll go from there, okay?' He was sure Sherlock was wavering between semi-consciousness and a fully unconscious state but he continued to talk -for his own reassurance more than anything else. All the time he was taking, John's hands were moving with swift, eloquent precision. Removing the safety cap from the needle and drawing the clear solution from a small glass jar, John tapped the air from the cylinder and pulled up the detective's dressing gown sleeve up. He quickly rubbed an alcoholic wipe over his skin. 'Right, Sherlock, you're going to feel a pinch in the top of your right arm for just a second.' John expertly slid the needle into the Detective's slender arm, injecting the liquid before gently removing it again. He put the syringe down beside him, grabbing a bit of cotton wool and applying pressure to the puncture sight, glancing at his watch. 'This should take around a minute to begin working, Sherlock, so just try and keep breathing as evenly as possible for me. I'm just going to move you into a slightly safer position.' John slowly began re-arranging Sherlock's limbs so that he was lying on his side. As he did this, the detective's eyes slowly began to flicker open. John let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd was holding, rocking back onto his heals. He waited for Sherlock gain a functioning level of awareness of the space around him, reacting to any light or sound stimuli.

'Mycroft?' he said hoarsely, confusion evident in the inflection in his voice.

'No, Sherlock, its John. It's alright. You're on the floor of our flat. Do you remember what happened? You went hypoglycemic and passed out.'

The detective's pale blue eyes fell upon the doctor's face. Sherlock frowned, shaking his head slightly. 'I don't…I don't-'

'It's alright; you're going to be disorientated for a bit. That's perfectly normal. You're probably going to feel flushed for the next ten minutes or so as well. That's just the body's reaction to a sharp sugar intake.

Sherlock nodded and tried to sit up but John put a firm hand on his shoulder, holding him still. 'No, don't move. How are you feeling?'

'Lightheaded.'

John hummed. 'I don't doubt that. Did you eat that toast this morning?'

Sherlock's eyes moved to the patterned plate that was resting on the edge of John's desk. John followed the detective's gaze and sighed. 'I'll take that as a no then.'

'I wasn't hungry.'

' _I wasn't hungry so I just won't eat even though I haven't eaten properly in a week.'_ John's tone was cutting and sarcastic. _'_

'Mocking solves nothing, John.' Sherlock said flatly.

'It might piss you off enough to make you look after yourself.'

'I'm fine, John, honestly.'

John scoffed at this. 'You can cut that out right now. I've just had to give you a sugar injection because you were conked out on our floor.'

'Speaking of which, can I get up from it now?'

John glanced at his watch again before looking back up at the detective disapprovingly. 'I suppose so- but slowly! And only if you're going to come straight to the kitchen and eat something.'

'I take it this is one of those obligatory things but you're saying it in the form of a question to sound polite.'

'Oh, so you can pick up on social cues after all?' John questioned derogatorily.

'Nope, I just have a flatmate who uses the same one constantly.' Sherlock snipped back halfheartedly.

'Ah, I see.' John said, looping Sherlock's arm around his shoulder. 'Right, on three we're going to get up you up.'

The detective turned his nose up arrogantly. 'I don't need your help to get up.'

'Oh, so you want me to let go, do you?' John sang. He mockingly dropped the detective but caught him again as he flailed. Sherlock's mouth melted into a shameful, conceded line.

'I didn't say that.'

'Shut up then.' John said playfully. He made sure Sherlock was securely on his knees before wrapping an arm around his torso. 'Right, ready? One… Two… Three!' With a grown, John heaved Sherlock off of the floor, allowing him to stand on his own two feet. 'You okay?' he said, adjusting the arm around his neck before continuing.

'Yes, fine.' Sherlock said back warily.

The pair, hobbled awkwardly towards the kitchen, John almost having to catch Sherlock as his legs momentarily failed him. Kicking out a chair, he sat the detective down at the table.

'Right first things first, brews and biscuits; then we'll think about getting some lunch in you.'

Sherlock grimaced at the word but said nothing in protest.

'You had me worried for a moment there, Sherlock.' John began busying himself with making the tea. 'You're blood sugar never normally drops that low. You should have fainted not fallen completely unconscious which is frankly quite a worry to me. Do you know what caused it?'

The detective looked passively at the floor.

…

 _Sherlock twisted, pulling in a hideous, rasping breath. Mycroft leapt forward. 'No, no, father that's enough! Stop!' Mycroft pulled at his father's arms, trying to free Sherlock's throat, his eyelids beginning to flutter._

' _Father! Stop!'_

…

Sherlock shook his head slightly. 'No. I - still don't remember.' He adjusted himself in his seat, casting his eyes back towards John who gave him a quick smile as he placed a plate of Digestives in front of him.

The doctor suddenly adopted a sarcastic tone. 'Oh, it couldn't possibly have anything to do with not eating for nearly four days straight and then only having a measly bowl of rice for dinner last night, could it?'

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in disapproval. 'John, you know I'm perfectly fine doing that.'

'You're clearly not though, are you?' John placed a steaming mug down in front of the detective. 'Did you do anything that could have spiked your adrenalin levels? You didn't sleep properly last night did you?'

'I finished the case.' Sherlock said taking a sip of the tea.

'That'll be what done it then.' The doctor concluded, taking a sip of his own. 'Spike of adrenalin, burnt up your reserve blood sugar, then as the adrenalin dropped there was nothing to keep you going.'

'Yeah, that.' Sherlock said distantly, frankly thankful John had come up with his own assumption. He reached forward for his tea again but stopped when he saw his flatmate looking at him with wide-eyed aghast. 'What?' he said, half irritably, looking down to were John was looking. _Oh..._

His left wrist was a horribly swollen. I had the hue of an unearthly purple colour and looked rather _too_ angular to be healthy. John immediately picked up his hand and began examining it. _'Shit, Sherlock, why didn't you tell me?!'_ He cautiously flipped the hand over, running his fingers down Sherlock's palm.'When did you take the bandage off?'

'Earlier when I took a shower and I hadn't noticed.'

' _What?!_ You must be joking!' John spluttered.

'No.' Sherlock said with a shake of his head. 'It doesn't particularly hurt.'

This caused the doctor's face to crease in concern. 'When did this happen?-Truthfully.'

Sherlock was silent for a minute. 'I don't know. I guess I must have landed on it when I fell.' _In all fairness, that was a complete lie._

John searched the detective's eyes momentarily before conceding that was in fact the truth. 'Okay… But you're saying there isn't any pain, yeah?'

Sherlock nodded.

'We're taking you to a hospital then.'

The chemist suddenly looked applaud _. 'What?! No! Why?'_

'Because if you're not experiencing any pain you've like severed or damaged your nerve endings which means the break is jagged and won't heal correctly.'

'But-'

'Sherlock, considering you've only just being woken out of a hypoglycemic shock and you should have been carted straight off too A&E already, you're really in no position to argue.'

'Stop going on about that! I'm not even diabetic!'

'That doesn't changed the fact that you were stupid enough to let your blood sugar get so low that you not only passed out, but remained unconscious and could, might I add, have fallen into a coma had I not got here earlier.'

'Don't be so dramatic.' Sherlock spat, rolling his eyes.

John's fist hit the table. 'I'm not! You could have sustained brain damage, Sherlock! You wouldn't be so quick to dismiss it then. You're going to eat some food and then you are going to a hospital and that's it!'

Sherlock sat back in his chair, folding his arms defiantly across his chest. 'You can't make me.'

…

'I hate you.'

'No you don't.'

Sherlock and John sat side by side on mismatching sponge chairs in the waiting room of the Hospital, St Thomas's. Sherlock sat grumpily, scowling at the floor between his feet, holding a bag of frozen garden peas to his disfigured wrist. John was looking somewhat more admiringly out of a large bay window to his left. The window over looked the wide river and the golden Palace of Westminster. Both appeared iridescent in nature when, from breaks in the deep, thunder grey clouds, intense, bright sun shone upon then. It was enchanting to think that in this ever modernizing city those archaic monuments such as The Houses of Parliament still stood the test of time. John thought it gave London a bewitching, authority; a sovereignty which no other city possessed. The doctor found it hard to maintain his sense of admiration however with his flatmate repetitively sighing in an exasperated manner by his ear.

'John, I hate hospitals.'

'So you keep saying.' He said restrictively, trying to retain a firm grip on his patience. 'But unfortunately for you, and frankly me, you need to be here.'

'I didn't ask you to come.' Sherlock mumbled, sinking further and further down in his chair.

'No. But unless I sit here, you'll leave and you need to get your arm set, so I can't.'

'Yes you can. You can leave right now.'

'Listen, Sherlock.' John muttered angrily. 'This may be something new to you but I care about you.'

'Why?'

'Because I do.'

'Why would you want to do that?'

'It's not optional.'

'Yes it is.'

John closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, huffing out a breath. ' _Sherlock!'_

'What?'

'Just- just accept what I said and leave it.'

'But it _is_ opt-'

' _Just...!_ Leave it. And for Christ sake, sit up properly.'

Sherlock's upper back now rested on the seat of the chair. He resembled an exasperated four year old on a long train journey, dying to get up and wander around but was repeatedly sat back in there seat by their stressed, overworked mother. John was relieved when finally a late middle aged, white coated doctor stuck his head out of a light, pine, treatment office door. He squinted down the end of his spectacled nose at a sheet of paper. He then looked up around the semi-crowded waiting room. 'William Holmes?'

Sherlock's eyebrows rose. He shimmed up into a sitting position before getting to his feet. He stood still, looking at the practitioner. He suddenly felt John's hand on the small of his back.

'Come on you. Let's get you sorted.' The pair of them crossed the beige, sterilized floor, walking after the Doctor's directional, out-stretched hand into the office.

Sherlock took a seat on the treatment bed, feet hanging a few inches from the ground. John took a seat in the corner of the room in a separate plastic chair crossing one leg over the other. Sherlock didn't particularly like this room. The walls were painted a meeker version of lemon yellow and a tangerine-ish patterned strip of wall paper ran horizontally around the waist band of the room. There were various health warning/promotional posters stuck lamely to the walls, their corners peeling away from the plaster and their colours fading with age. The lights above their heads, like in the waiting room, were bright and assaulting. There was a desk with a computer, stethoscope and a blood pressure cuff as well as a framed picture of what could only be assumed to be the Doctor's children. _No wife… Interesting..._

The doctor closed the dense door, looking down at his clip board. 'So, what seems to be the trouble Mr. Holmes?'

'I don't know.' Sherlock sneered giving an indicating nod of his head. 'You'll have to ask my interfering flatmate over there.'

The doctor's eyebrows drew together as he turned to face a rather contemptuous looking John. The ex-soldier sighed. 'My flatmate is one of these abnormal people you come across in society who has absolutely no capability of remembering to look after themselves.'

Sherlock scowled at John from across the room but he just ignored the look.

'To cut a long story short, about a week ago, Sherlock-'

'Sherlock?' The doctor cut it. 'I have William here on the paper.'

'Oh, sorry, Sherlock is his middle name but that's what he goes by.'

'I was going to say I thought I recognised you two. Been in the papers haven't you?'

'Yes. I'm a blogger. Sherlock's a detective.'

'Consulting detective…' Sherlock mumbled moodily.

John shot Sherlock another irritated look. 'Yes. Anyway, Sherlock is here because a week ago he fell over in the street and sustained a break in the Hamate in his wrist which he neglected to tell me about until three days later.'

The doctor pushed his half-moon glasses up his nose. 'Did he see a doctor about it?'

'I _am_ in the room.' Sherlock piped.

This comment was seemingly ignored by both if the medical practitioners.

'I'm his doctor.' John continued. 'I examined his wrist and bound it as he refused against my wishes to go to the hospital.'

'What changed his mind today?'

'My stubbornness and Sherlock's lack of energy to argue.'

' _I'm still. In. The room.'_ Sherlock said again, rather more impertinently.

'And the medical reason?'

'Sherlock passed out today and when he fell, he landed on his wrist, making the breakage considerably worse. My primary reason for bring him though is the fact, he's not experiencing any pain.'

'When you say passed out, what was the cause?'

'Depletion in blood sugar.'

'Diabetic?'

'No. Just a clot.'

The doctor turned back towards Sherlock, holding out a rough, tanned hand. 'May I see?'

Sherlock removed the bag of peas from his wrist, setting it down beside him.

The doctor took it gently, turning it over several times. 'Can you just bend each finger forward as if you were playing the piano?'

Sherlock did so. The doctor examined his actions intently. John subconsciously bit into his lip in nervous thought as he saw the tremor that wracked his flatmate's hand every time he moved his ring finger.

'As I suspected.' The doctor said sitting down at his desk beside the treatment bed. He clicked his blue biro pen and began to scribble on a form. 'The nerves running the cross section are cut.' As he spoke he turned his attention on John. 'I'd too say there was one fracture, as you identified, but the level of swelling leads me to believe Ulna has sustained a break before the leverage point and there may possibly be one more.'

John had turned quiet pale, looking worriedly towards his flatmate but keeping his concerns to himself.

'You were right to bring him in.' the doctor continued. 'The extensor digitorum of the fourth is lacerated.' He turned back towards the desk on his battered copper red, swivel chair and continued to write before putting his pen down again. He slid across the room, positioning himself in front of the detective. 'Now what this means Mr. Holmes-'

'He know!' John swiftly voiced, getting his words in before Sherlock had a chance to get his. 'He's a graduate chemist and his friends a bio-chemist so I think he's got a pretty good idea of what you've just said.' John shot the detective a threating look as he went to open is mouth.

 _Don't you dare!_

 _Why not!_

 _Because whatever it will be, it will be rude._

 _No, it won't. I'm never rude._

 _Did you seriously just say that to me?_

 _What? All I was going to say was-_

 _Sherlock, if you even think about it._

 _Fine! Fine!_

The fifty something year old doctor raised his eyebrows in surprise at the voiceless convocation that seemed to be conducting itself the two men in front of him. John stopped realising that this was suddenly a very awkward situation. He straightened himself up. 'So, is that it?'

The doctor once again pushed his glasses up his nose with a small cough. 'Well, uh, yes, I think that's all, I'll send you over to Radiology to get your hand x-rayed and they'll send you over to Bone and Joint Unit to get a cast.'

Sherlock went to protest again but John shut him up in a look.

'Thank you for your help doctor.' John smiled over sweetly, desperate to get out of the room. He took the reference papers from the lab coated man. 'Come on, Sherlock.'

…

After several hours of sitting in muggy, dull waiting rooms and arguing over how you can't tell an orthopediatrician that they're doing their job wrong, Sherlock and John where finally able to walk free from the hospital which they had been encased in all afternoon; the ornate cast iron hands of Clock Tower on the opposite side of the river indicating that it was just coming up to seven thirty in the evening. It was still relatively light. The sun had dipped below the dark cloud layer, cast a comforting amber glow and long, stretched shadows between the buildings across the still bustling streets of London. A soothing breeze rolled gently from the waves of the Thames giving a renewed sense of life to those who perused alongside it. This relaxing sleepy setting was however rather juxtaposed to that of attitude of the five foot six ex-army soldier thundering down a set of concrete stairs towards the bank.

Not stopping to let his gangly, unbalance flatmate with him, John stomped heavily down the last few steps and the re-assumed his striding march west along the plainly tiled pavement beside the water. Sherlock jumped raggedly onto the level street jogging to catch up with his flatmate.

'John, how was I supposed to know?!'

John didn't even bother to turn around to look the flagging detective. 'You're Sherlock Holmes! How could you not?' He spat sarcastically.

'John, you're being unreasonable.'

John gave a short bitter laugh, shaking his head. ' _Unreasonable?_ You're a fine one to talk.'

'You're acting as if I lied to you!' Sherlock huffed trying to keep up with his flatmate's walking pace.

'That's because you did!' John cried in appalment.

'No, I didn't.' Sherlock protested. 'You asked me a question, I answer it.'

'I said had you ever broken your wrist before, you said no!'

' _No._ You said "Did you ever fall off your bike as a child?" and to that I said no.'

'You knew why I was asking thought!'

'John, I can't remember that far back in my life!'

'That's also another bloody lie!' John suddenly stopped, turning round viciously causing Sherlock to almost career into him. He was no longer shouting but rather whispering indignantly. 'I'm sick of you lying to me, Sherlock. I'm sick of you always hiding everything from me. You know everything about me and I know _nothing_ about you.' He gave Sherlock a sharp poke to the chest. 'You never tell me the truth and I may as well be sharing a flat with a complete stranger. Least they'd remember to go to sleep at night.' John shoved his hands forcibly into his pockets and began trudging in the direction he had before.

Sherlock was left standing alone in the centre of the pavement, people glancing inconspicuously at him as they passed. 'Fine.' Sherlock called out. 'I did break my wrist when I was younger but it wasn't in an accident…' The detective's voice grew soft but grave. 'A member of my family did it.'

John stopped. Sherlock could have sworn the doctor had never rounded on him so fast. 'Sherlock Holmes, if you're lying to me to get some _bloody_ sympathy vote, _I swear-_ '

'I'm not…' Sherlock muttered levelly. 'I can remember that far back in my life, I just don't want to.'

John looked culpably at his flatmate, eyeing him sternly. After a minute of silence, he took a step closer feature softening into a look of tenderness. Slowly he looped an arm around Sherlock's neck, pulling him close. _'I really fucking hate you sometimes…'_ he breathed sadly.

'No you don't…' The detective replied with a fond smirk.

* * *

 ** _'And how was that?' - 'Surprisingly okay.'  
Did you enjoy this chapter? I'm worried it got a little bland in the middle but I felt the need for a bit of mush, fluffy stuff at the ending so. Let me know what you think. (ABOUT THIS AND THE TRAILER BECAUSE I'M STILL ALL OVER THE SHOP ABOUT IT.)_**

 ** _REVIEW RESPONSES:_**

 ** _ ** _YouKnowWhoIAm -_**_** _1) Awesome name but I don't. 2) Thank you for reviewing and metaphorically picking up my story. Thank you for saying my chapter is amazing. (although back at chapter 5. You may have changed your opinion by now.) You are the second person to say that now which make you special :)_

 ** _paula. -_** _I thought Mycroft was braver than that too, but apparently my brain thinks otherwise. The real fear is in why he isn't in this scene. What was so traumatic that he could sneak_ _himself into Serbian Ranks for his brother but not stand up to his father. Sherlock is okay, for now, as you've (hopefully) read. Mycroft's fate is yet to be explored. Thank you for reviewing! :)_

 ** _Soberdog -_** _New reviewer which is always nice to see. Yes the *gulp* was defiantly necessary. Hopefully you weren't_ _too nervous. (Maybe I secretly want you to be because that means I'm doing my job properly haha) Was this chapter alright? I feel it was somewhat anti climatic but I feel all hell will rise in the future, of that I'm sure. Thank you for taking the time to review. :)_

 _ **Guest (That wrote in French) -** __Vous êtes bienvenus. Je ne pense pas que j'ai jamais étonné quelqu'un avec mon écriture avant donc ça a été vraiment très agréable d'entendre. J'ai seront assuré continuer l'action car je la trouve aussi passionnant que vous. Vous êtes les très bienvenus. Je vous remercie pour l'examen ! x_


	16. And By 'Of That Nature' You Mean

_**So, longest chapter so far. I hope you like it. I all gets a bit dark now. I hadn't expected it to get so but I guess it is just a bit reflective of my mind at the moment. Going through a wee bit of a mental crisis since Tuesday night which I'm only just starting to drag myself out off. I had to take a bit of rest bite, take writing slowly so I never got to post on Wednesday like a planned. If, like me, you have bad depression or are just a bit sensitive to that sort of thing you might want to give this a miss for now.**_

 _ **I am so so grateful for the amount of support I've received with this First Fic. This week I reached some amazing mile stones. This month I've had well over 10,000 views which is insane and I now have nearly 80 of you following, so if you're one of them, thank you :) I've also nearly 50 reviews which is amazing! Next mile stone 100! Hope you enjoy. Thank you to all of you for highlighting my spelling and grammar cock-ups. It's really helpful because no matter how many times I proof read I miss thing. I'll shut up now...**_

* * *

The pair of them had decided to walk towards the more cultured section of the river bank to forget about the day's events in place of happier memories. The trip across the cracked tiled pavement hadn't taken long but tediously consisted of John sighing as Sherlock wavered his blue casted arm around. The gentle lapping wash of water was the only thing which allowed the doctor to keep his nerve as the lanky detective complained about how unbalanced he felt and how the next two weeks were going to be hell because he couldn't play his violin. Then there was the moment John had to tell Sherlock it would be at least six weeks… And then another six weeks healing time…

They had both resolved, or rather John had resolved and told Sherlock, that today could be drunk away and so led them to a fashionably lit, modern bar beneath one of the arches of Waterloo railway bridge. The sun filtered through the trees in blotches, making the air pleasantly cool and refreshing so they sat outside at a rounded table, John swigging at a pint of beer and Sherlock sipping more distastefully at a glass of red wine. They talked for little over an hour. Nothing of a profound nature; John mainly reminisced over the show they'd seen last week, or rather Sherlock's face over the show they'd seen last week. The doctor couldn't help but feel slightly uplifted when Sherlock after a few minutes of poorly constructed denial gave a soft smile, confiding that he did actually quite enjoy the theatre. To John's surprise, he even suggested they should go again sometime.

Once they had finished their drinks, they picked up some groceries from the nearest Tesco's and then much to Sherlock's protestation, got the Jubilee Line Tube back to Baker Street.

By the time they had arrived home it had grown dark and began spitting with rain. Bustling through the front door into the gloomy entrance hall, the pair tramped upstairs after one other; beginning to unpack the week's shopping in a settled sullenness, passing tins and boxes to one another with quiet mutters of thanks. It was as they removed their jackets and John had set about making tea that Sherlock had broken the silence.

'I'm going to my brother's funeral tomorrow.' He said with a melancholy voice.

John tried to mask his surprise at Sherlock's admittance, quick to continue about his work knowing that Sherlock would undoubtedly shut himself up if he suddenly became more attentive. 'I never got a proper chance to say to you that I'm sorry, Sherlock… It's really unfortunate.' The only sign John had that Sherlock had acknowledged his words was a small hum. Keeping his tone light, he continued. 'Would you like me to come with you?'

Sherlock shook his head. 'No- Thank you.'

John wanted to take the next step but wasn't sure if it was the right one so he did it with caution. 'You and your brother, were you close?'

Sherlock gave a small shrug of his shoulders. 'I don't know. I guess, in a way.'

John nodded pulling the milk out of the fridge. 'And-er- how are you feeling about it?'

There was no response although the doctor thought he could hear the detective physically stiffen. He turned around to see Sherlock sitting up bolt upright. His face was half in shadow, the other half lit only but the harsh, artificial strip light above his head. He stared at the table surface with a closed, tight expression. It was hard to tell exactly what he was feeling but the taught; motionless "I'm fine" gave John a pretty good indication. The doctor took a seat down opposite Sherlock, folding his arms together lightly on the table. 'You know it's okay, to be upset about it.'

Sherlock slowly looked up. 'There's nothing wrong with me.'

John frowned, a quizzical expression suddenly on his face. 'I didn't say that there was.' John placed a hand forward towards the detective. 'Sherlock, you have to understand that struggling to deal with things is okay. Both of my parents are dead now. I know losing someone... it can be hard. And it can be confusing. It can scare you. It can even make you angry…' The doctor stopped, looking into Sherlock's eyes, just trying to find a way to get through to him. 'I know what it's like to lose someone you love.'

Sherlock suddenly felt a horrible, sickening tug from deep inside him, realising the doctor was no longer referencing to his family. He suddenly stood up from the table, clumsily pushing the chair back. 'Will you excuse me for a minute?'

John called after him but the detective had already fled away towards his bedroom. 'Sherlock!' He heard the younger man's footsteps stop. Pausing, Sherlock slowly walked back into the Doctor's view. He looked quietly at the seated man in front of him but didn't utter a word. John referenced to the seat in front of him. 'Tell me about him.'

Sherlock blinked twice. After a moment, he took a step forward, slowly pulling out the chair he'd just been sitting on. He sat down, hands folded in his lap. John gave the detective a sympathetic smile 'What he like, your brother?'

Sherlock gave a small shrug casting his eyes down at his hands. John gave light sigh. 'I only ask, Sherlock, because I'm worried you're bottling everything up inside at the moment, and I really don't think it's doing you any good.'

'It's not affecting me.' Sherlock muttered quietly.

John raised an eyebrow, crossing his arm. '-Said the man who tried to strangle another man to death.'

Sherlock suddenly looked up in shock at the doctor, eyes wide. 'How did you know that?' His voice was overly cautious. In a way, he sounded almost betrayed.

John laughed slightly at this strange reaction. 'Because I was there Sherlock!'

Sherlock's mouth fell open and he got up angrily to leave. This confused John and the humour dropped from him. 'I turned up after Lestrade had just strong-armed you off of Anderson, Sherlock…You-You know I was there.'

'Oh.' Sherlock's disposition seemed to soften. He sat back down. John narrowed his eyes, suddenly speculative. 'What did you think I was talking about…?'

Sherlock shook his head. 'It doesn't matter. I got…confused.'

'Confused with what?'

'Nothing, honestly.'

'Sherlock-'

'I promise you, John, it's nothing.'

The pair of them looked at each other for a moment.

'He was funny.' Sherlock said suddenly. 'He was funny and he was considerate.' He stood up, removing his coat from the back of his chair pulling it on. John stood up too. He watched the detective cross through to the living room, picking up his blue scarf from the arm of the sofa looping it around his shirt collared neck. He moved towards mantelpiece picking up his phone and placing it in his pocket. 'He was funny and careless and he was my best friend when I was young.' Sherlock continued to say walking towards the stairs. 'But I have a new one now so it doesn't matter.'

'It always matters…' John said quietly.

The detective didn't appear to hear him, setting off to the ground floor. John leant over the banister. 'Sherlock, I'd prefer if you didn't leave.'

The detective stopped looking up at his worried face flatmate. 'I'll be fine, John, I just want to walk and get some air.'

'We've technically just done that. It's just… after today… You haven't eaten yet and it just worries me that you're running around alone.'

'I've got my phone on me.' Sherlock said pulling the device out of his pocket and waving it at John. 'If I'm not back in a couple of hours, you can message me. If I don't respond within fifteen minutes you'll know something's happened.'

'That doesn't make me feel any better.'

Sherlock continued his decent. 'Just a couple of hours, okay?'

This wasn't particularly a question because he'd slammed the front door before any kind of response could be given. The ex-soldier sighed inwardly. 'Bye then.'

John walked back into the living room surveying the clutter. Stepping over multiple tipped over piles of case notes, the doctor picked up his jumper from the chair of his desk, pulling it over his head. He leant out of the still open window into the night. Among the excitable tourists and the mouthy London natives bustling along the street for a night out, Sherlock walked alone, a solemn expression on his face as he manoeuvred his way towards the end of the road. John watched the detective disappear from his sight around the corner into the street beyond. 'Be safe.' He whispered, feeling a sudden sense of despair come over him. He took a deep breath and momentarily watched the rain fall down from the black sky above. In the warm coloured streetlamps and in the glare of car headlights, the droplets shot towards the ground, water compiling into reflective puddles at the roadside. Sherlock was mad going out on a night like this; which made John think he was all the madder being half tempted to snatch up his coat and follow the detective. He didn't though, knowing that if he got caught, any trust he'd built up with Sherlock in the past twenty-four hours would be obliterated. Sighing heavily, he pulled the window closed and set about tidying up.

He gathered as many things as he could carry up into his arms, all the things that looked applicable to the case the detective had today finished going into one pile and all the rest in another. Then he repeated, and repeated until he began to see something that vaguely resembled the floor. It was as he began to collect the empty and abandoned tea mugs that he heard a light knock from the hallway. John turned around inquisitively, shoulders relaxing as he saw the visitor. 'Greg.'

'Hullo, I thought I would come and check how everything's going after yesterday. Need company? '

A light smile found a place on John's peachy face. 'God, yes...'

…

The two middle-aged men sat opposite one another, each in their own armchair in the cosy, warmly lit living room of 221B. Between their hands, they each nursed a hot cup of coffee.

'So let me get this straight.' Lestrade said sitting back into the depths of Sherlock's armchair. 'Since last night, Sherlock has solved a case, fainted, fallen into a state of unconsciousness, been dragged back to the land of the living by you and had an afternoon out at the DGH because the clot fell on his arm and broke it in three places and now he's wandered off into the night to get sopping wet in the rain?'

John sighed bringing the steaming mug away from his soft lips. 'In a nutshell, yeah…'

Lestrade's eyebrows rose. 'Christ, I don't know how you cope with him.'

'You would know.' John replied. 'You looked after him, didn't you, when he was younger?'

'Broadly speaking yes and I wouldn't have called it coping.'

John smiled at this, imagining a younger Greg trying to tame an even wilder, adolescent version of Sherlock. How he ever did do it is a mystery of its own.

'If all this happening,' The Inspector continued, 'was on the account of him not eating enough and a lack of sleep, why are you so worried?'

John sighed not really sure how to formulate these next words. 'Because… Because I'm certain now that his broken wrist was inflicted.'

'You don't mean that though do you?'

John didn't reply, mouth only forming a thin line.

'You serious…?' Greg's tone implied he was appalled but his eyebrows, drawn together, inferred hesitancy. 'How can you be so sure?' He said cautiously.

'I told you last night.' John replied resolutely. 'The angles of the breaks are all wrong. There are no scratches or scuffs or grazes on his palms. If he really fell over, wouldn't you expect there to be some form of impactful evidence on him. You must have seen it in physical attack victims?'

Greg nodded meekly, coming to terms with the validity of John's evidence.

The doctor pressed on with his argument, now completely self-assured of his assessment. 'The three brakes in one hit; someone of Sherlock's weight, in nigh on impossible, even if he had broken his wrist before. – Three breaks is just too much! Someone did that to him and with the directional proofs, it was more than likely that Sherlock was looking at his assaulter when it happened so the real question is, why the fuck isn't he telling us who it was or that his was attacked in the first place?!' John was stopped by the Inspector waving a hand at him.

'Wait. Wait. Wait. So he has, broken his wrist before?'

'Yes! So much for him not lying to me over something so petty; I saw it in his medical file this afternoon at the hospital: 'Age fourteen, breakage to the left wrist.' It was there in black and white; put down as a fall from his bike just like Mycroft said. But-

'But…?'

'But, this afternoon on the river bank, Sherlock told me something that counteracts that! Something that's got me worried for a whole other number of reasons!'

Greg's eyes narrowed. 'Alright, let's just keep a level head about this. What did Sherlock say exactly?'

'A member of my family did it. That's what he said. When he was little his wrist was broken by a member of his family.'

Greg suddenly went pale, as if he was going to be sick. John picked up on this, putting his mug of coffee down and leaning forward towards the Inspector. 'Greg, are you alright?'

It took a moment for the Scotland Yard Official to register something had been said to him. 'Yes, yes, I'm fine.'

'Are you sure?' John pressed. 'It's just you've suddenly gone quite white.'

'Yeah, no, I'm fine.' He cleared his throat placing his mug on the table beside him. 'So, so the hospital has it down as a bike accident. Mycroft too is saying bike accident, but Sherlock was saying it was a member of his family?'

'Yes...' The doctor said warily, carefully watching the detective's countenance.

'Did he-' Lestrade visibly swallowed. 'Did he say who?'

John's eyebrows suddenly drew together. '…No. Why…?' The doctor leant forward towards the silver haired man but he curiously recoiled. John paused, demerging suspiciously over the DI's actions. 'Greg, what do you know?'

The Inspector stood up, waving his hand away dismissively. 'Nothing, nothing, I just wondered if you knew who.'

John eyed the detective probingly. 'I don't think you are.'

Greg tried to divert the subject back to its original point. 'So either, Sherlock's lying or when they were young, Mycroft had it put down as an accident.'

'I favour the latter, considering his display of emotions today. How old would Mycroft have been?'

'Twenty-one,' Lestrade said assuredly. 'But he wasn't Sherlock's legal guardian, at least not on paper.'

John took an encroaching step forward. 'How do you know?'

'I just do.'

'Greg, this is serious.'

'I know.'

'Then why won't you tell me?!'

'John, please!'

The doctor was stunned into silence. He had never recalled Lestrade shouting at him before. John rocked back on his heels, walking away to sit heavily on the edge of his desk. He hadn't realized he'd gradually been getting nearer and nearer the detective. From across the room the pair looked at each other helplessly apologetic eyes saying all their words couldn't.

'I know…' Greg said unfeigned.

John fell back against the table top chair scrubbing his weathered hands across his face. 'I'm just so scared, Greg; for me and for him.' He sat back up looking haggardly at the taxed detective. 'I just feel like I'm walking into this dark, knowledge-less cave and that there are going to be some terrible, awful things waiting for me in there. And I'm scared that' he's voluntary going in that same direction.' The doctor flipped his hands about gesturing randomly to things in this invisible world. 'It's like this place has no light, no warmth and no feeling and the only means I have of security is Sherlock but he's just wandering off alone, alone in this horrible place, leaving me to trip and stumble in all this darkness. I mean what if I can't find him or if he gets lost. What if he gets hurt and I can't get to him anymore? What if needs me and he can't find his way back to me? I can only go so far because if I lose sight of the entrance we'll never find our way out. He won't stop walking though, no matter how much I shout at him and I worry that, soon, I'll lose sight of him.'

John's words were getting faster and faster, more and more panicked. Greg pulled out one of the desk chairs, sitting down in front of John. Greg leant forward resting a hand on his knee, snapping the doctor out of his speeding train sense of thought. 'If you shout too loud the cave might fall in and then the situation becomes a damn sight harder. Do you understand?'

John nodded, still not quite in the room.

'Remember this is all just a metaphor you've created.' The detective continued. 'There's no real blackness and no real cave. You'll be here in the flat and that's manageable.' The Inspector sat up straight again, adopting a whimsical tone. 'I'm sure you can navigate from one end to the other in the dark.'

John gave a weak smile at this. 'You're right.'

Greg smiled back. 'Whatever is going on, we can manage it. You're not alone because you've got me. Together we can get through this.'

'But where do we start?' John said helplessly.

'This is debatable the hardest bit, and you won't like it, but we have to wait for him to come to us.'

John's mouth fell open. 'You must be joking!'

Greg gave a sympathetic, lopsided frown. 'We can ask him, John, entice him to talk to us but he won't tell you the truth, the full truth until he's ready. You'll know when that is. Until then all we can do is let him know he's supported. He'll more than likely reject it but believe me, he needs to know someone is willing to listen.'

John nodded trying to assimilate all this new information the Inspector was giving him. He seemed to know so much. It made John wonder what had happened in the accumulation of years before he appeared in the Detective's life.

The Inspector began to speak again. 'But there are some important things you need to keep an awareness of, okay, John, in the time that this is happening?'

John looked up, suddenly felt nervous. It must have shown on his face because Lestrade quickly began to re-assure him.

'No, no it's alright just if any of these things happen let me know.'

'What things?'

Greg got up, taking both his and John's cups into the kitchen. 'Three D's: Drugs. Depression. Dissociation.' The Inspector ticked them off on his finger.

John too got up following the detective into the kitchen. 'Meaning what?'

'Meaning he'll likely toy with drugs, even if it's just the idea.' Greg began to fill the sink with water. 'I think he sometimes feels he's losing touch with reality so does it to remind himself he's alive...If he starts to stash them in the flat, in his coat pockets it's okay but just be wary. It's if he takes them, that's you need start being concerned. It's not so much the taking of them which is bad. He doesn't mix and he rarely overdoses. It's when you take him off them that it can become difficult. Being a doctor, I guess you know that. It can de-rail him a bit. He can get a bit violent.-It's not him.' Lestrade added quickly, light-hearted innocence in defense. 'It's the substance.'

John nodded understandingly coming to stand beside the DI. Greg put the cups they'd been drinking from in the warm, sudsy water, rolling up his sleeves. 'When he goes into his depressed episodes is when this tends to happen. You know what he's like when these come on. Doesn't talk? Sleeps non-stop or doesn't sleep at all? Refuses to eat?'

'You- don't have to wash up.' John interrupted ardently.

'Nonsense.' Greg replied, picking up a damp sponge. 'If anything I find it relaxing…distracting.'

'How are you and your wife at the moment?' The ex-soldier asked diligently.

'Not so great. Gone to her sister's in Essex until further notice.'

John just nodded, mouth forming a meek line. He shook his head, realizing he was detracting. 'Sorry, you were saying?'

'Oh, yeah, if it gets to the point where you, as a doctor think he's refusal to eat is becoming dangerous, call me and I can try to intervene. It's usually around the eighth day that the undernourishment begins to take its toll on him.'

'Usually?!' John cried. He was used to the younger detective not eating for two, three, maybe even for days on a particularly tricky case but over a week?!

'It's hard to spot,' The detective continued, 'when it's getting too much for him but the most apparent symptom is his reaction time to exterior stimuli. It gets really sluggish. You know how to check responses… so just check every once in a while.'

Greg stopped, briefly gazing out of the window in front of him. 'And, uh, if he tries to hurt himself or…anything of that nature then tell me straight away- before, if you can recognise the warning signs in him.'

'And by anything of that nature you mean…'

The DI resumed scrubbing at the mugs. 'Yes.'

John found himself a little stuck for words not wanting to sound pernicious or callous. 'Has… Has he ever tried it before? Attempted?' The doctor felt his stomach turn at the reply.

'Unfortunately… I was there both times.'

John's mouth fell open. 'Both?!' He rubbed a hand across his forehead uncomprehendingly. 'Jesus Christ…Why the hell did nobody tell me?'

'He's never been this secluded, this secretive. Not since he met you.'

John suddenly felt a contempt wager up inside of him. 'Oh yeah, except the time he jumped off a fucking roof and we all thought he'd kill himself!'

Greg looked defeatedly down at his reflection in the sink's soapy water. 'John, nobody knew that was coming.'

'Exactly! Maybe if someone had told me he was prone to that sort of thing it never would have gotten that far!'

Lestrade suddenly pushed out a riled breath. 'John, you weren't the only one who felt like they failed him!'

The doctor winced, wanting to kick himself. He was acting like a complete tit. He pinched the bridge of his nose. 'I know. I know…' He looked up at Greg who was still staring sorrowfully into the juxtaposingly joyful bubbles. 'I'm sorry. I just…forget sometimes.' He cast his gaze to the floor, knowing he was about to ask a question he really didn't want the answer to. 'What did he do…?'

'First time, massive painkiller overdose...' Greg's hands became motionless. He looked out of the window in front of him again. 'He had a seizure. Rushed to hospital, stomach pumped… I'll never forget sitting at the end of his bed when he woke up; the look of disappointment on his face when he'd realized he was still alive.'

John felt an overwhelming sadness come over him. He looked up at the detective. He's expression was distant. He was clearly sunken deep into his memories.

'And second time…?' The doctor whispered.

'A knife…' Lestrade breathed shakily. 'He tried to slit his wrists... He-he was bad. Nowhere near as bad as I'd seen before but… Anyway he was staying at my house one night and we were just watching TV and then, and then, I don't know, he must have heard something, seen something, thought something because…'

'You don't have to tell me.' John said softly.

'Yes. Yes, I do.' Lestrade said firmly. '…Because I don't ever want to him to do that again, not as long as I live. Or he lives… and has to outlive me, he just has to.' Greg sank back, sitting on the edge of the kitchen table, the water on his hands dripping onto the floor. 'I, I kept him talking whenever we watched TV. Asking what he thought of things. Asking if he knew anything about what was being said. It stopped him from wandering too far away from me if you get what I mean. Kept him in the room. And it was fine. He was curled sideways in one of the armchairs and I was on the sofa. It was just an episode of QI. He was chatting to me, if you can call it chatting, he even made a few jokes, which just never happened. He almost seemed happy, but then…then he suddenly stopped, stopped talking; stopped smiling. I got up, sat down cross-legged in front of him.

'We have this signal, this hand thing.' The Inspector was subconsciously demonstrating, hand held out in front of him, fingers spread like a fan. 'We use it to say a lot of different things to each other. Things like, "Thank you" and "I care about you" and "We're still friends." When Sherlock got really depressed, we used it to communicate, to check he was still okay. As long as he touched my fingers I knew he was still with me and not lost in that head of his. When he couldn't see past his thoughts, when he was too absorbed in his mind or too high on drugs I used it to say, "You can't see what's happening right now but you need to trust me because you need some help." His touch meant he trusted me to do what I needed to.

I got in front of him, held my hand out. His fingers, his hand were tremoring but he reached out and touched my fingertips…'

…

 _Sherlock, pallor of face and tired of eye, buried within his burgundy 'Cambridge Rowing Team' hoodie, reached out for the detective's hand._

' _What can I do, Sherlock?' Greg voiced softly, arms folded on the sofa cushion in front of him. 'What do you want me to do?'_

 _Sherlock squeaked as he tried to pull in a breath. 'Help…' The twenty-two year old's hand dropped from Lestrade's, knotting his side. The concerned Police Officer place a tentative hand on the side of the bedraggled student's head. A tear fell from his icy blue eyes. He drew a dagger sharp breath between his clenched teeth. 'And don't let me hurt you.'_

 _Lestrade suddenly sat back. Sherlock blinked… Then blinked again… Lestrade began to panic the young man was going to fall into a fit on the account that he was still withdrawing from several doses of morphine that he'd taken a week ago, but the adolescent suddenly got up out of the leather armchair he had been balled in, standing unsteadily on his feet. Greg stood up, watching warily as Sherlock walked across the untidy, open planned living room into the kitchen space. The youth walked almost robotically, in the sense that he didn't seem to need to remember where he was going. It just sort of happened, eyes empty, no expression on his face. The newly promoted Detective Inspector paced at a careful distance behind him. Sherlock opened one of the counter draws at his waist and began to search around it erratic manner, first with one hand, then with two._

' _Sherlock… Sherlock, what are you doing?' There was an anxious edge to the detective's voice. Sherlock continued to search the draw getting more and more frantic, pushing the contents inside around frustratedly. Greg suddenly stepped forward. 'Sherlock, stop it.' The DI took hold of one of Sherlock's arms, pulling at it. 'Stop it, you're going to hurt yourself!-_ _ **Fuck, Sherlock, stop!'**_

…

Greg suddenly stopped. John looked at him worriedly. 'What happened…?'

Lestrade squeezed at the bridge of his nose. 'I had to wrestle the knife from his fingers. He just went wild. I couldn't see the boy I knew anymore. I-I just squeezed him, wrapped my arms around him and squeezed him to my chest, refusing to let him go. He screamed and screamed, trying to get at his arms with this bloody great knife. I was terrified he would just try and stab himself. Then he just broke. He just collapsed in my arms; sobbing so much I wasn't sure if he could even breathe anymore.' Greg sniffed tautly, swiping a rogue tear from his cheek. 'We just ended up on the floor. I couldn't-I couldn't move him, I didn't know what to do, so we just lay there all night.'

John found himself speechless. He'd never appreciated the relationship that Greg and Sherlock had together or what either of them had been through. Sherlock seemed to scarcely remember the Inspector's name. Seeing the level headed, professional manner both adopted at crime scenes, you'd never have guessed they were any more than work colleagues.

Greg stood up walking back towards the sink, continuing to wash up. 'Sorry I'm getting all-' The DI dragged an arm across his face. 'If he was here he'd be laughing at me, calling me a soppy sod or something. What I'm trying to say is… he won't always tell you when he's not coping and you never know when that might come out or how. Just, just watch him, okay?'

John nodded, somewhat taken aback. 'Yes, of course.'

'Thank you.' Lestrade whispered, placing each mug on the side to dry. 'So, how are you?' The silver haired man said suddenly, the excessive brightness in his voice evidently trying to dismiss the severity of the previous convocation.

'Excessively worried, and a bit frightened, if I'm honest.' The shorter man replied.

'I wasn't trying to scare you.'

'I know, I know, it's just...' John paused looking around the flat. 'I just thought I knew him but the more time goes on I realise that I really don't have a bloody clue who he is.'

'Does that scare you...?' Greg asked quietly.

The doctor was silent for a moment but shook his head. 'No... It just makes me realise he's more vulnerable than I ever imagined. That he's not comfortable with talking to me and that makes this whole broken arm mystery, a little bit more terrifying than I already thought it was.'

Greg nodded, drying his hands on a tea towel. 'He's also incredibly strong, John. He's still here, alive, and he still somehow manages to smile, even if those smiles are few and far between.'

John gave a weak smile with a small nod of agreement. There was a short silence. Greg began to move towards the stairs. 'I better go. It's quite late.'

John glanced out of the window at the dark, drizzly street. 'Yeah, suppose it is. Thanks for coming round, Greg.'

'No problem. Anytime. Just remember to give me a buzz, yeah, if you feel the need?'

'Yeah. Yeah of course. Goodnight, Greg.'

'Night, John.'

The Detective Inspector had made it half-way down the stairs before coming to a halt, hearing his name called.

'Greg!' John ran out to the landing, leaning over the banister. 'Greg, you never explained the third one.' The doctor said breathlessly.

Greg frowned. 'The third one?'

'Yeah. Drugs, depression, and Dissociation. What's that?'

'Listen, John, you'll know what it is when it happens, okay? You don't know when it's going to happen. There's little to do to stop it coming and barely anything to do to get him out of it when it does and it's impossible to handle alone. It's imperative you call me if he suddenly doesn't recognize who you are or he starts doing anything severely unlike him, okay?'

'Why?' The doctor very quickly became nervous.

'Because this is when he's most likely to hurt you.'

John swallowed, mouth forming a thin line. 'Okay...'

'It'll all be fine.' Lestrade shouted descending the final creaky wood stairs to the ground floor. 'He's a lot older now. None of this will probably even happen.'

John sighed as he heard the front door slam. 'I hope you're right...' he breathed.

* * *

 _ **Thoughts? I hope it wasn't too dark or too placid because it was all convocation. Review? What should happen now? Until the next time X**_

 _ **REVIEW RESPONSES: (Quite a few of you now so bare with.)**_

 _ **paula.** \- All ready got to you. Thank you for being so so supportive :) _

_**PiercedBlueCat** \- I got sooo shaky about the trailer. I screamed! I got sooo excited and I still am! Will John see the truth soon? Well I think he's very much getting there. Sherlock just needs to tell him! Thank you for reviewing as always! :) _

_**0ayumi0** \- Yes, or is it? I think something far more severe happened between the two in their youth. Mycroft was Sherlock's thought though when he woke... Hmmm? Thanks for reviewing! :) _

_**Guest (Who chatted about S4) -** I fixed all the Sherrinford's. I took a while but all done. Thank you for pointing that out. I felt like a clot miss spelling it. I'm soooo excited to see the three brother dynamic in the new series! I cant wait! XD Thank you for reviewing! :)_

 ** _YouKnowWhoIAm -_** _Honestly, hearing you say I have a knack was such an uplifting thing. Thank you. I hope I didn't let you down with this chapter. I hope to bring a bit of Mrs Hudson in soon. Club? Do you think I should? I wouldn't want to turn into quite the obsessive twat that Anderson is. Hahaha Thank you for reviewing! :) X_


	17. The Funeral

_**So, I did it... I'm sorry it took so long but you'll be pleased to know I wrote some other chapters that come further down the line in this interlude so it's a step in the right direction, I think. Not sure about the quality of this one; I think it fluctuates a bit. But let me know what you think.**_

 _ **I just wanted to take this opportunity to say thank you, to all of you really. I never though I had so many understanding people in my life. I woke up one morning and had received ten different messages of support from you. I'm now gutted that the internet stands between us and that I can't bake you some cupcakes and thank you each in person. I'm still not really on the mend but I'm here and a part of that I owe to you. I can't put into words how much I appreciate you all. I hope that those among of you receiving exam results got what you hoped for.**_

 _ **If there are any mistakes, just yell at me and I'll fix them. As normal my review responses are at the footnote. Happy Reading...**_

* * *

Restlessly, John lay awake in bed until the early hours of the morning, ardently worrying, until he heard the distinctive, weary footfall of his tall flatmate shuffle through the front door of their humble London home.

Once Greg had left the flat that evening, the doctor had text the detective to remind him that it had been 'well over two hours since he'd left' and that he 'really should come home now'. The brisk response John had received from Sherlock was clipped and informed him curtly that he'd be back soon that 'no, he's not dead' and he should just 'go to sleep already'…That was three hours ago.

He listened to the consultant's shoes click up the main staircase, pausing on the landing before transitioning into the kitchen. There was a brief interlude of silence before he heard Sherlock switch the light on and give a small snuffle of laughter. This caused the doctor to smile. His phone suddenly lit up on his bedside table. John's eyebrows rose inconspicuously. He picked up the device, seeing there was a message from the detective reading thusly:

...

 _You'll try anything, won't you?_

 _You can go to sleep now, John._

 _Sherlock._

 _..._

John grinned at the screen and began typing a reply.

...

 _Don't know what you're talking about._

 _Don't make a mess down there; I've only just tidied up. Mrs Hudson gets back tomorrow and if she returns to a trashed flat she may be a bit indignant towards you._

 _John._

 _..._

The doctor put his phone down, closing his eyes before shuffling himself down beneath the soft covers that enveloped him. After a few seconds, however, his phone lit up again. John opened one wary eye, and then the other. He picked up the glowing device, thumbing the screen. Another message…

...

 _Oh, Please! Don't tell me it was actually a white rabbit that left me some food with a sticky note saying 'Eat me' on it because then I'd say you were Tweedle Dumb. And indignant? Never. Merely miffed._

 _Sherlock._

 _..._

John was surprised Sherlock had picked up on the literary allusion. He'd never seen the detective ever read anything but textbooks and university papers. With a sleepy, side-ward smile, tapped out a reply.

...

 _You hope merely miffed. Anyway, you said you_ _'d been home 'soon'. That was hours ago. I should ground you._

 _The White Rabbit._

 _..._

The doctor jumped as Sherlock's baritone voice suddenly crashed through the causeless silence, bounding up the stairs. 'Oi, Bunny, shut up!'

John burst out in a wild giggle throwing his duvet over his head.

'Go to bed!' he shouted back playfully, struggling to keep the bubbling laughter in his chest suppressed. 'It's two in the bloody morning!'

A smirk tugged like a fish hook at the corner of Sherlock's mouth. 'Never.'

The detective ambled back into the kitchen, plucking the note from the table's light pine surface, smiling in a fleeting picture before quickly screwing up the paper and tossing it in the bin. Grabbing a warm cup of coffee, the consultant raked his coat around him, still feeling the chill of the midnight air drawing at his core. Opting to keep the swathing heap of material on, he sat down at the table, settling deeply into the fabric for a night of reading and research.

When John arose in the morning, he was surprised to find that Sherlock had already spurred himself up and left the house. His instruction of 'keep the flat tidy' were not disregarded, but not fully adhered to either. The living room was near enough untouched but the doctor's apprized kitchen table was a scatter with papers, books and various jars of wonder worthy machinations. He didn't mind too much, though. It meant that Sherlock was functioning and safe. And that's all that really mattered.

…

Mycroft stood alone at the back of the perniciously cavernous space. He rested silently against one of the folly-less, stone grey pillars that stretched upwards, towards the arched, ivory ceiling. These tree-trunk-like towers paralleled each other on each side of the church giving the impression of a concrete wood to the imaginative observer. The church wasn't particularly decadent. The crimson carpets, running through the archaic wood was like a blood river, or rather a blood stream for it was threadbare and weedy. The windows were marred by years of desultory weather and every insignificant or undetectable crevice was laced with sticky spider's webs. Grandeur was not a word you'd use to describe the place. Perhaps not palatal either and certainly not opulent. It was humbler than that. Nobler; more imposing, but that was fitting in Heather's fond opinion. We'll get to her in a moment…

The politician's body language spoke as if to mildly offend. Something he'd honed upon and perfected by the age of fourteen. As ever the orderly matriarch, with upturned nose and high held head, Mycroft held the appearance of an old, divorced school mistress wanton with life's bitterness…yet strangely lascivious. His eyes, however, rather than surveying for mischief or discrepancy, cut right through the space and rested attentively on the back of his only living brother's head.

The nave around him was unsurprisingly vacant. The service for which he had worked ensured Sherrinford was never able to sustain any long-term relations. There were two men and a woman, assumedly from the office he'd been based in. There was no sign of either of their parents but for this small blessing, Mycroft couldn't help but feel a swath of relief. Neither had been invited although this didn't normally stop them. They seemed to have a habit of finding out about occasions and inviting themselves. Maybe, this time, they didn't. or maybe they just didn't care. Either way, it set the politician at ease. There was, however, a middle-aged woman and two children; a boy and a girl, the girl being the older of the pair. Sherrinford's children… Mycroft worried how Sherlock would take the prospect of being made an uncle.

The detective had not removed his gaze from the cold stone floor at his planted feet for the whole service. He hadn't shifted or stirred, at least not until his name was called by the Vicar to speak. Mycroft's heart palpated in his chest as his little brother stood silently, making his way to the pulpit. He must have been dreading this. Sherlock is a man capable of many things, but speaking in front of people wasn't one of them, not as soon as he knew they were all actually listening.

After the events of yesterday, Mycroft had been unable to communicate with his brother so was just relieved to see Sherlock was able to stand. He evidently had a slight concussion as he was somewhat unsteady on his feet. When the brain is starved of oxygen for a short term, the effects can be relatively minor. The long-term effects, however, can be unpredictable. Haemorrhages were not uncommon… Hopefully, Doctor Watson would keep an eye on him.

Sherlock now stood in front of the congregation; in his hands, a crisp piece of paper folded in half and then half again. He looked between it and the small gathering of people before him and back again an anxious expression on his face. 'I-uh…' He began, clearing his throat. 'I'm not very good with words so I'll just…' The detective clumsily unfolded the paper.

Mycroft couldn't help but feel a strike of sympathy in the depths of his stone heart. His brother clearly rather be anywhere else right now. Sherlock drew in a long breath. 'Sherrinford is-Was!' he said quickly with a small shake of his head. 'Sorry. Was because he's…' Sherlock's fingers subconsciously clenched and unclenched themselves, sweat forming on his brow. 'Sherringford was my oldest brother. Now, I have a different oldest brother.' The detective referenced awkwardly with a waving hand to Mycroft standing at the back of the hall without raising his gaze from the paper. 'Sherrinford was great.' He continued. 'He-he did a lot for this country, more than I'll probably ever realise and for him to be taken in…' He paused with a swallow, blinking several time. 'To be taken in this way is a great injustice… He shouldn't be dead.' The detective said this last bit to himself rather than anyone else. 'He-he was the best older brother anyone could ever hope for. He was funny and heroic and…' He paused, blinking again. 'And he was always there for me, he would always help me: If I needed it, if I wanted it, and even sometimes when I didn't.' The few people in the congregation laughed warmly at Sherlock's comment. The detective appeared confused at this, causing him to falter momentarily. 'One-one spring I was climbing up a tree and… and he-um…'

Mycroft suddenly looked up from the toe of his shoe when he heard his brother come to a faltering stop. The detective was looking down at the ground, upper front teeth biting hard into his lip. His knuckles were turning white as he gripped the parchment in his hands.

'I think I'll sit down now.' Before anyone could protest or give the man a vote of confidence, Sherlock had gathered up his sheets and fled the stand, stuffing them into his pocket before taking a seat again on the varnished wooden pew; icy blue eyes avoiding those of the crowd.

At this point, Mycroft was sure Sherlock was going to burst into tears but he seemed to hold his nerve. He wanted nothing more than to gather his little brother's shoulders into his arms and tell him that it was okay and that he was proud and that Sherrinford would be proud too but he knew that if he did this, Sherlock would more than likely shove him away, everyone away, when, in reality, right now, it was people he sorely needed.

The politician was next to speak: Short, sincere, eloquent as always. After a few more short words from the Reverend and a final hymn, the congregation broke into small groups for small talk. All the typical pleasantries (in pleasant is the right word on such occasions) were exchanged. "I'm sorry for your loss." and "Why is it always the good?" we're the most common among them. Unexpectedly Sherlock too had engaged himself in convocation.

'So, you're a detective?' said the sandy-haired six-year-old, tapping a sceptical finger on his upper lip.

Sherlock nodded. 'Yes, that's right; a consulting one.'

'What does that mean?'

'It means,' interrupted the poesy faced girl. 'Whenever the police are out of depth, which is always, they go to him for help.'

Sherlock smirked at this. Defiantly her father's daughter...

'So you're my uncle?' questioned the boy.

'I am and so is Mycroft over there.'

'Why have we never met you before then?'

'I guess we've all been a bit busy.'

The mother smiled sadly at her two children. 'Why don't you go and say hi to Sarah and Dan? I'm sure you can catch up with Sherlock in a minute.'

Both of them nodded and wandered over to their father's colleagues.

Once they were out of earshot the women let out a pent up breath, throwing the smooth, light hair from her face. 'Sorry about them. They can be a bit full on, I know.'

'They're wonderful.' Sherlock smiled fondly.

'I think so… It's so nice to finally meet you!'

'You too.' Sherlock said holding out a hand. 'Sherlock; youngest of the Holmes', if we're excluding little James over there.'

The women smiled taking the hand and shaking it politely. 'Heather. Sherri's told me so much about you.'

Sherlock felt his chest swell, mouth going dry. 'He…he has?'

'Yeah,' Heather bore a strange grin as if she couldn't quite understand why the man in front of her was so surprised. 'He absolutely adored you.'

Sherlock stared unknowledgeably at his brother's lover, overwhelmed by all this new information. 'Um-wow, it's… You know until today I never knew Sherrinford even had a partner, let alone a wife and two beautiful children.'

'There were three of them once. But our first child died in the first ten days; faulty heart rhythm…'

'Oh, I'm so sorry.'

'It's okay. I have them so…'

The pair of them looked loving at each of the bright faced children talking animatedly to the middle-aged adults before them, silently understanding exactly what the other felt without saying a word.

'Where are your parents…?' Heather said eventually.

Sherlock's expression suddenly changed to something of regret. 'I-I don't know. I haven't seen my mother since I was about fifteen and my father… I don't know where he is, not exactly.'

'That's a shame.'

'Not particularly…' Sherlock suddenly jolted from his thoughts realising he'd just said that out loud. 'Oh sorry that was-'

'It's okay, I understand. Sherrinford said you three never got on with your parents.'

Sherlock gave a distant hum. He glanced at his feet, directing his thoughts elsewhere.

'You seem to be coping quite well.'

Heather gave a lopsided expression. 'I was just well prepared I think.' She said, sweeping her strawberry blonde strands from her face again. 'Working as he did an all… I think I'm all cried out if I'm honest.' She laughed weakly. 'Besides, gotta stay strong for them.' She said nodding towards her children, Honey and James. 'They need some form of stability right now.'

Sherlock smiled lightly. 'You're a good mother.'

'I try to be.'

'You're doing a good job I'm sure.' Sherlock suddenly looked at his feet, cheeks flushing pink. 'Sorry. That was weird.'

Heather laughed placing a tentative hand on Sherlock's arm. 'No. That was sweet. Thank you.'

'You're welcome.' Sherlock muttered awkwardly. 'Have you met Mycroft?' He offered, trying to detract from his blundering display of emotion.

Heather raised condemning eyebrow. 'Yeah… Yeah, we've met.' She looked round at the politician briefly. 'He's an interesting character. I'd say you were a bit more…normal.'

Sherlock mused at this but his tone gave a flat reply. 'Don't believe it.'

'Well, whatever normal is.'

Sherlock gave a small mindful hum of agreement. 'Touché...'

'Well, it's been lovely meeting you, Sherlock, even if the context is dim.'

'Yes. It's good to know one of the Holmes men could actually uphold a relationship.'

Heather's mouth dropped open. 'You're not single?!'

'I am.'

'What, a lovely guy like you?! Who'd a thought, eh? You must be terrible in bed or an appalling eater.'

The detective scuffed at the cold stone floor beneath feet with the toe of his shoe. 'Yeah, something like that…' He gave an awkward laugh. 'I'm surprised I've even managed to keep my flatmate.'

Heather smiled again. 'I'm sure you're wonderful. You just don't realise it yet.'

Sherlock suddenly looked up, his face formed in tender shock.

" _Be kind to yourself…Your mind is truly beautiful, Sherlock. You just don't realise it yet."_

That was the last thing Sherrinford had ever said to him on that cold Christmas night when he was seventeen.

Sherlock was snapped from his memory as Heather began to speak again.

'Honestly, though, if you ever wanna come round for dinner sometime, you and your flatmate, get to know everyone a bit better, you're most welcome.'

Sherlock suddenly felt a warmth spread across his chest that he hadn't felt in a long time. A humble expression melted onto the consultant's face. 'Thank you. That's very kind of you to offer.'

'Anytime.'

Everyone soon broke their mild-mannered convocations to gather outside beneath the pallid grey. The misty rain swirled through the air, making everything in sight look dewy, steadily saturating the congregation. Mycroft, Sherlock, and the few friends Sherrinford possessed, stood emotionlessly beside the grave, coat collars turned up against the blustery wind. This was not first time they've had to put one of their colleagues into the ground. Both Honey and James clung to their mother's side, crying with hopeless abandon, Heather herself sweeping a few rough tears from her cheeks. A few words were said, and flowers placed, before the eldest brother was committed to the earth. Each person payed their respects and the congregation gradually filtered away inside until only Sherlock was left standing beside the headstone.

The detective and the bleak rustic landscape around him seemed to have been washed into monotonous black and white, lacking all life, motivation and meaning. The only image of any vibrancy was that of the slightly wilted poses placed atop the earth, juxtaposing in a headache-ish manner with the surrounds. Mycroft turned around when he found an absence at his side. He felt his heart sink as he saw his younger brother's head descending to his chest.

His knees folded until he was sat firmly in the wet dirt. The newly cut granite stone felt cold against Sherlock's pale forehead, the finality of today's events catching up with him, hauling him into remembrance and reality simultaneously - That's why death's so bitterly caustic; it hammers you to the present like nothing else you can ever experience, like the shock of jumping into a December sea, yet throws you so deep into your past, you're sure you're drowning, fog restricting your airways forbidding you to ever breathe again, and you can only lie there fearing you will never claw your way back to functioning, intrinsic reality. It was two opposing forces in motion, tugging at each of his arms leaving him still, tormented and isolated, in the middle.

He felt sick with anger; the anger of having his brother snatch away, the anger of not having spent any time with him, the anger of not being able to have stop this all… the anger of hated relation to his despicable father. He tried to force all of his rampant emotion into a singularity of ire but as Sherlock felt lukewarm tears escape down his pallid, angular face, there was nothing he could do to stop the sob that boiled up in his throat from running away with him. The detective buried his head within his coat with a sob. 'I'm sorry!' He gasped. 'I'm so sorry, Sherri; this is all my fault! If I had kept an eye on you this never would have happened!' He clutched his knees into his chest letting out a shaky breath. He looked up to the sky but started with a cry when above him loomed Mycroft, sheltering him from the heavy, infrequent rain drops with his umbrella. The detective clambered furiously to his feet. 'How long have you been standing there?!'

'Long enough…Sherlock, I promise you, everything will be alright.'

'Why are you here?!' The detective snapped. 'Why can't you ever just leave me alone?!' Sherlock turned stiffly on his heels, walking away towards the church.

'Because you are your own worst enemy, brother mine,' Mycroft called. 'As you've just demonstrated… I'm concerned for you, Sherlock.'

Sherlock turned back sharply striding towards his brother. 'Listen, I don't know what you _think_ you know about me, Mycroft, but I'm not some needy, self-destructive rag doll that will fall apart if you touch it.' The detective was now nose to nose with his brother, voice coming out in a low growl. 'You've all but disappeared from my life. You only rear your ugly head when you want something or when you feel like being nosy. You know nothing about me, Mycroft, nothing. So why don't you just saunter of back to your office and leave me alone.'

'Sherlock, I needn't remind you that caring is not an advantage.'

Mycroft suddenly gasped fingers coming sharply to his stinging left cheek. He stared at Sherlock, mouth agape in shock. Sherlock glared back, a white fire within his icy eyes, the hand that had just sharply assaulted him now balled into a fist at his side. 'Our brother…' He whisper.

'Sherlock-'

'HE WAS OUR BROTHER! We've just had to put him in the ground! He's dead! He's dead and you can't even bat a damn eyelid!' The detective's voice suddenly turned was dangerously low. 'You come here, put on a mournful display but this afternoon you'll saunter back to lambent office and just continue blackmailing the elected leaders of this country and ever poor human below you into doing whatever your precious head desires with no sense of sympathy in your cold, unfeeling heart so don't come to me and claim that you _care about me!'_ Sherlock spat the last few words viciously. He felt his throat constricting with emotion. 'If you really believed that, if you really thought that was true, that caring was not an advantage, you wouldn't be standing here. So, if that's what you need to tell yourself to get through the day, that's fine but don't try and push your pernicious, stupid ideology on me.'

Mycroft took a gentle step forward. 'Sherlock, I'm worried about you.'

'What, think I'm on drugs again?' The detective sang sarcastically.

'Sherlock-'

'Because I'm not, and if you're that paranoid, you can ask Molly.'

'Sherlock, that not what I am inferring at all.'

'Then what, pray tell, were you inferring?'

'I wasn't inferring anything! Now, if you can refrain from being so childish for one minute-'

The politician stopped talking as Sherlock took a stride towards him. He pulled away as his brother snatched up his wrist, whispering coolly beside his ear.

'You abandoned me yesterday, Mycroft. You just stood there and watched as he tried to strangle the life from me…' Sherlock's voice was distant and disconsolate. 'You let him hurt me, you didn't even try to help me.'

'Sherlock, I did what I could.'

Sherlock laughed bitterly, shaking his head in disbelief. 'You know what…?' The detective gave the politician a sharp jab to the collarbone, causing him to wince. 'I'm glad he attacked you yesterday.' He whispered slyly. 'I'm glad.'

Mycroft drew back. 'You must have hit your head yesterday, Sherlock, because nothing of the sort happened.'

Sherlock merely smirked. 'The right ankle.'

'What?'

'Your right ankle, you've not rested any substantial weight onto it all morning. You may be able to mask a limp from the more stupid among the population but you can't fool me.'

…

 _The politician fought against the hold, trying to reach for his brother, but came to a forceful stop receiving a sudden sharp jab to the abdomen. He doubled over, gasping as his father's arm suddenly looped around his neck, yanking him forward._

' _If you know what's good for you, you'll leave him.' the slightly shorter man hissed into his ear. Mycroft swallowed, looking down towards his brother. He closed his eyes, swallowing down hard on the lump forming in his throat. With a conceded nod, Mycroft found himself being hauled from the floor and forced towards the stairs._

' _Father-father, where are we going?'_

' _Just shut up and walk, boy.'_

 _Mycroft tripped over his own feet as he was pulled faster than his conscious, manic brain could manage, down the steps towards the ground floor. 'Sherlock-please-just let me check on him-Father!'_

 _The politician gasped as he was suddenly thrown down the final few steps to the entrance hall floor. He clutched at his ribs, the air knocked from his lungs._

' _Mycroft, you've seemed to have forgotten. When I tell you to do something you do it.'_

 _Mycroft suddenly cried out in pain as his father's foot came fiercely down upon his ankle. He bit his lip to stop the tortured whimper from escaping his mouth. The politician pulled fearfully at his father's hand as his spinal fingers grasped at his jaw. Siger breathed deep and low into his son's face. 'Now, you are you going to get up and you are going to walk down that street and pretend that nothing's wrong and you're going to listen when I say, you will leave your brother to me. Do you understand?'_

' _Y-yes.'_

' _Good.'_

…

'You'll never fool me, Mycroft.' The detective spun on his heels and began to stride away towards the gate of the cemetery. 'Stay away from me.'

Mycroft went to protest but knew anything said would be in vain. Sherlock didn't want to listen so wouldn't. He watched disconsolately as his younger brother disappeared through the rain. Today was never going to end well…

He looked numbly down at his feet. Beside him on the grass, lay Sherlock's folded speech, obviously fallen from his pocket. Mycroft picked it up, calling to his brother, but he was already gone. Carefully, he unpicked the edges, the page sticking together in spots where the rain had fallen upon it. Outstandingly, upon the parchment, there was no laborious dialogue; in Sherlock's scrawl-ish handwriting, only one simple sentence.

...

 _'Just say what you feel in your heart.'_

 _..._

* * *

 ** _Sorry, did I induce the feels with that last bit? I made Sherlock slap Mycroft. I feel that was cruel of me. Anyway, tell me what you think. I'd love to know. Are any of you arty? Perhaps one of you would like to draw me a image you see from my story? I'm interested to know what pictures are conjured in your minds. I'll be as quick as I can with the next chapter. I'm just struggling to order my term of events. Any ideas?_**

REVIEW RESPONSES:

 **Thanks -** When I was lying there late at night, barely in touch with reality anymore, you messaging that Doctor Who quote did a magical thing... It made me smile. Sometimes I forget I can do that. I forget about the good thing. The story of Vincent Van Gogh is tragically beautiful. I wish that he did get to see how many appreciate his wondrous works. It's always the most talented, beautiful minded people that are the most misunderstood. It's cruel. To say my writing is a gift was just astounding to hear and I feel undeserving of such praise. I hope this chapter lived up some expectation. Thank you for taking the time to talk...

 **So-Many-Ships-It's-An-Armada -** I think I PM'ed you. I'm glad you think I set the previous chapter up well. It is what I aim to do haha :) Thank you so much for your support the past couple weeks.

 **YouKnowWhoIAm** \- I've probably already said this. I've lost track. I adore John and Lestrade! Thank you. I try to uncover characters steadily as it is like in real life when you meet people. That fact that Sherlock does tend to disappoint but then I think the existence of Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman makes up for it. Is it time wasted if it makes you happy? ;) Thank you for reviewing! Support group of 79 now haha. Truly amazing. :)

 **Soberdog -** I still can't get over the trailer and it's been like a month! I'm sooo excited! I'm loving writing my story for you. Thank you for taking the time to message!

 **0ayumi0 -** Thank you for yet again reviewing! You're very kind. I hope this chapter was worth the wait. :)

 **Meliko -** I've already said hello but I just wanted to say it's truly incredible and restores my faith in life when I have someone I've never seen or spoken to before show their support to a total stranger like me. Thank you :)

 **BravePrincess1 -** You're words of 'be good to yourself keep re-occurring in my mind, reminding me it's okay to feel like I do and not to beat myself up so over it. Thank you. Hopefully the wait wasn't too long. Was it worth it? I hope it was. :)

 **Genna -** In my mind, that's what happened to Sherlock's parents. I was considering writing the chapter in. I've got first hand experience of it this year so hopefully it will be convincing hahaha Thank you for reviewing!


	18. A Lie Too Many

**_Hello, remember me? Sorry I've been vanished for so long. I hope you're all well. I'm genuinely heart broken at the prospect of this being the last series of Sherlock...like...no... But anyway, I was quite happy with this chapter before but having read it again I've decided I hate it. It's clunky and the characters are too OOC for my liking. But I promised I'd post something so, here it is. Let me know what you think, I hope it's not too disappointing. :/_**

* * *

Molly had been surprised when Sherlock walked into the lab that afternoon. It had been almost three weeks since she'd last seen the gaudy detective. Greg has not phoned to say that he had been put on any new cases and he had not texted her himself.

Sherlock had entered the room uncharacteristically quiet. Rather than his customary gailish flourish and swade remarks, the detective had shuffled in, feet itching across the floor, his coat pulled tightly across his chest despite the mugginess of the day. Molly had opened her mouth to give a soft greeting but recognized the detective's glaze-like appearance and resolved to remain quiet over breaking Sherlock from his thoughts.

He'd taken a seat on one of the blue plastic stools beside a work bench opposite; one leg crossed over the other, and was now staring with an un-pertainingly haunted look at the desk ahead of him. His eyes, however, were completely unseeing. As she stared down the lens of her microscope, Molly couldn't help but throw hasty passing glances to the wary-looking detective. He'd lost weight again and looked frightfully pale. The fact that his lips were slightly crinkled indicated to her that he was somewhat dehydrated; thought all the truer when she observed the tension between his eyebrows: Headache.

 _Sherlock, you really haven't been looking after yourself properly again, have you?_

Setting her work aside, Molly slipped from her stool and crossed through the door behind her into the staff room. The pathologist shortly returned with a plate in one hand and a steaming mug in the other. She set both down in front of the detective, although he didn't seem to take any notice.

 _What was he thinking…?_

Time passed; all in silence; but Molly didn't mind. Just the presence of Sherlock in the room made her feel at ease. She'd forgotten in her few weeks away from the detective just how much of a calming effect he had on her nerves. She smiled gently when looking up from one experiment, she spied the detective subconsciously nibble at one of Rich Tea biscuits she'd left out for him.

 _Maybe I should tell John to do that every so often?_

It wasn't until four case files later that the detective finally spoke. Molly nearly jumped when Sherlock's deep baritone voice suddenly filled the otherwise empty lab. 'What was it like when your dad finally died…?' He hummed quietly.

Molly set down her pipette and removed the goggles from her face.

'It was the worst thing I've ever had to go through.' She said with an unbecoming matter-of-factness. She moved to the detective's side. 'I thought I'd never feel happy again; never be able to feel love again.'

Sherlock nodded slowly, still that unnervingly distant look in his eye. He slipped himself from his stool and began to pad across the sterile tile floor towards the door.

'But it got better.' Molly piped suddenly. 'And I promise it will for you too, Sherlock.'

Sherlock turned to look at the pathologist. He willed himself to give her a soft smile but the expression couldn't seem to find a home in his features.

'It's okay. You don't have to.' Molly said seeing the conflict in Sherlock's face.

The consultant nodded gratefully. He turned and reached for the door but was stopped as Molly spoke again. 'Death can feel isolating, Sherlock. Especially if it was someone you were close to… You have my number. If you need anything- ever- it's fine. You can always talk to me-I mean- if you want to.'

Sherlock contemplated this offer to himself for a moment before giving an acknowledging and grateful nod. With that, he slipped quietly again from the room.

Once she was certain Sherlock was gone, Molly pulled her phone from her pocket and began to type a new message.

TO: John Watson

Hi John, it's Molly. Sherlock's just spent most of the afternoon here with me at the lab but he hasn't really said or done anything. Is everything okay? He doesn't look particularly well. I think you should take a look at his neck. There's something not quite right.

Love Molly x

PS. For future reference, if Sherlock is zoned out thinking, put some food in front of him. He unknowingly eats it. Might help you in trying to keep him on his feet?

Pocketing the device again, Molly placed the plastic goggles back on her face and sat down, continuing her work with the image of Sherlock playing in the back of her mind.

…

Sherlock had got the tube back to Baker Street. He had the money for a cab but had felt an overwhelming need to remind himself of the human life that still existed and moved around him. It's funny, isn't it, how to one person their life could be ending and yet opposite them, on the same train, someone else is having the best day of their life…?

We're all so oblivious to each other. Sherlock thought in a momentary crush of reality.

In the dying half-light of the July evening, Sherlock, with the rest of London, had risen to the surface of the street and began making his way home along the semi-crowded, dusty slabs of broken pavement He'd reached the news-infamous door of 221B and was about to push the key into the lock when he suddenly stopped.

It was winter now. Chilled, leaden rain tapped with wisenheimer attitude on the tops of the steal metal tables that sat optimistically outside the steamed up window of Speedy's, falling patiently from the overcast, heather-grey sky above. Bright, complacent days had been removed from power and replaced with dismal days of merciless showers of ice and long nights of scathing frost that snatch the homeless from the street and the elderly from their unheated homes, never to be seen again as the muddy ground claims them. From the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see the young girl behind the counter of the café making up a fresh lot of filter coffee give him a merry little smile. With a despondent yet heartbreakingly familiar smile, Sherlock nodded back. The girl blushed quickly, continuing about her work. The grin faded brokenly from his lips and Sherlock climbed the single step to the door, pushed the key into the lock, and stepped inside the townhouse.

Closing the cheerless day out, Sherlock found himself sinking heavily back against the door, eyes drifting closed. It's as if all the energy had been drained from him. He just needed to crawl beneath a blanket and let the sweet melodies of Debussy fill his ears and not move for the next two weeks and just to let everything filter away. He found himself slowly slipping to the floor when Mrs Hudson walked out into the entrance hall carrying a black bag of rubbish. She stopped with a slight start. 'Oh! Hello, dear. Is everything alright?'

The detective looked plainly up at the soft faced landlady, unsure of how to explain away that he was 'perfectly fine', whilst being sat in the middle of her doorway. Instead of lying and making up some poor excuse, Sherlock instead found himself saying quietly, 'Actually, I think I need some tea…'

Mrs Hudson smiled brightly. 'I know exactly what you mean, dear. Come inside, I've just made up a fresh pot. I'm sure there's more than enough for two of us.'

Sherlock hauled himself from the floor, giving Mrs Hudson a gentle smile before passing into her flat.

The pair sat opposite each other at the little square table in Mrs Hudson's kitchen, each nursing a china tea cup between their chilled fingers. The night was drawing in and as the temperature dropped, the sleet-ish rain began to transform into snow. Sherlock watched the cotton drift slowly down from the sheet of black above, glinting in the amber glow of the street light before disappearing again. The gallery kitchen smelt distinctly like gingerbread. Mrs Hudson explained to Sherlock how, after her trip to the shops with Jenny, she's had her niece and nephew around and she explained how they'd spent the afternoon baking. Sherlock tried to look interested but found himself unwillingly distracted.

'What's wrong, dear?' Mrs Hudson had said eventually, placing a gentle hand on his forearm.

Sherlock had frowned. Come to think of it, he wasn't actually sure. He just felt decidedly joyless despite having closed another case. He shrugged. 'I'm just tired, I guess.'

'I understand, dear. We can't be on tip top form all the time, can we; certainly not at my age?'

Sherlock gave her a weak smile but his attention was suddenly caught by John who was now standing in the doorway of the kitchen. 'Thought I heard you down here,' he said softly. 'Having fun?'

Sherlock smiled meekly at him. 'Mrs. Hudson was just telling me about her day.'

John gave a distracted nod back. He folded his arms across his chest, a warm expression was trying to make its way into his features but it came out askew. Sherlock frowned. 'Is there something wrong?'

John shook his head, looking dismissively at the floor. 'No, no, everything's…' The sentence seemed to die on his lips. He looked back up at the consultant. 'Actually, Sherlock, do you think I could talk to you please?'

Sherlock now looked arbitrarily between his landlady and his flatmate, and air of confusion on his face. '…Alright.' He slowly stood up, the wooden chair giving a mild screech as it was pushed back across the laminate flooring. It was so silent that analogue clock on the wall could now be heard ticking away behind the three. Sherlock began to walk towards the door but seemed to hesitate. Mrs Hudson smiled at her wry young man. 'We'll finish this in the morning, dear. I've nowhere to be.'

Sherlock gave the landlady a slight of hand smile before continuing from the room. John turned to leave but was stopped by the landlady's worn, chirpy voice interjecting. 'Is everything alright, dear?'

John's mouth formed a thin line. 'I…I don't know.'

Mrs Hudson gave John a sympathetic look. 'Well, if there's anything I can do to help, just let me know.'

John gave the kindly lady a grateful nod. 'Thank you.' The doctor, however, did not stay long enough to hear the reply but was instead now back out in the hallway, bounding up the stairs two at a time. Slowing as he reached the landing, he walked cautiously into the living room, closing the door behind him and leaning his back again the wood. He looked up to see Sherlock fiddling with the Rubik's Cube that had been sat on the mantel piece moments ago.

'Sherlock, come here.' John said slightly breathlessly.

Sherlock's brown furrowed. 'Why?'

The doctor held his gaze momentarily before looking to his shoed feet. 'Just-come here-please.'

A suspicious expression moulded onto Sherlock's face. He replaced the puzzle cube and padded over to the short-heighted doctor, locking eyes with him. 'What is it?'

The doctor, instead of giving a reply, reached up for Sherlock's navy blue scarf. The detective suddenly realised what he was doing and snatched himself away. 'Don't touch me!'

John ignored these hissed words, grasping hold of Sherlock and pulling away the enveloping material. He sighed heavily as his suspicions were visually confirmed. Sherlock knew it was futile to protest as the doctor's steady, calloused hands, drifted to his burgundy coloured shirt collar, pulling it back at its edges. 'Sherlock, when and how did you get these bruises?' John's voice was barely audible as he examined the hideous, dull purple marks across Sherlock's, otherwise perfect, throat. Sherlock swallowed before he spoke. 'It was ages ago.' He muttered.

'Or…?' John said blankly.

'A few weeks ago.'

'Or…?'

Sherlock remained decidedly silent. John took him by the hand and sat him down in his armchair, switching the light on so he could see better. 'Or, yesterday…' He said defeated. '…Why didn't you tell me?'

Sherlock lent away from the doctor's tender touch. 'I told you not to touch me.'

John pulled his hand away, looking glumly at the floor. With a click of joints, raised himself from the faded carpet, crossing disparagingly towards the window. 'I just don't know what to say to you anymore, Sherlock.'

The lanky, tired-eyed detective twisted in his seat to face the doctor, who was now perched on the edge of his desk. 'Don't say anything.'

'How can I not, Sherlock?!' John suddenly snapped. 'How can I stay silent when I know someone is deliberately hurting you?!'

'No, they're not.'

'Then why won't you tell me how you got injured - huh? - why do you never tell me?!'

Sherlock opened his mouth but John wouldn't let him reply.

'And it's not just that, is it, Sherlock? You barely speak to me anymore - about anything! What's happened to you?'

'We'll if I knew that was going to be a requirement when we agreed to flat share-'

'Shut up, Sherlock! Cut it with the bloody sarcasm!'

'Oh, so you don't want me to talk now? Someone's feeling indecisive today.'

'And someone's feeling a bit of an irritating prick!'

There was a momentary pause. Sherlock suddenly got up, crossing towards the door. John followed after him. 'You're not going out?!'

'Well, I'm certainly not staying here.'

Sherlock set out for the stairs but stopped when the doctor's despaired voice reached his ears.

'Sherlock, please!'

Sherlock slowly pivoted around on his heels. Ahead of him, in the arch between the living room and the kitchen, John was now stooped, looking uncharacteristically small. His face looked the image of absolute torment. His fingers hovered at his mouth, obviously surprised at his sudden outburst. He took a step forward, silent tears brimming in his eyes.

'Please tell me what's going on.' He whispered, trying to sniff back his over-spilling emotions. 'Please Sherlock, because I can't bare to see you like this anymore. This has been going on for months now. Nearly every day I'm getting a text from Molly or Greg saying that you're hurt. I tried to ignore it, believing that you'd sort it out but I can't just pretend I don't see it anymore, Sherlock. ' Sherlock looked sorrowfully at the shorter man in front of him, lips forming a small grimace. 'There's nothing to tell, John.' Tucking his hands into his pockets, Sherlock turned to leave but was again stopped by John's pleading voice.

'Sherlock, please! As your doctor, as your friend, as the person who cares about you more than anyone on Earth, please, please, let me in.' The doctor implored over the detective's face, eyes begging him to speak. He watched Sherlock in the half-light of the doorway. He was so pale; so tired. John suddenly found himself taking an involuntary step forward, tears finally giving way. 'Please, Sherlock… I can't bare this.'

Sherlock took a tentative step forward, fingers reaching out but suddenly shying away again. 'On my life, John, there is nothing, I swear.'

'I can't believe that, Sherlock. Not for one second. You say so yourself, whatever evidence remains, however improbable, must be the truth.- However much I don't want it to be the truth.'

Sherlock remained silent, top two front teeth chewing his bottom lip. John took another step forward. 'Whatever you've done, Sherlock, whatever anyone has done, I promise you, you can tell me.'

Sherlock walk across to the kettle, flicking it on. John watched in anticipation as Sherlock removed his coat, placing it on the back of a chair, but still he said nothing. The doctor walked quietly across to the detective. 'Is this it? Are we going to finally talk about this?'

'About what John?'

'About what's going on, Sherlock!'

'There's nothing going on!'

John suddenly pulled at the detective's shoulder, twisting him around to face him. Sherlock pulled away in protest. 'Hey-what are you doing?!'

'Stop lying to me, Sherlock!'

'I'm not lying, John, you're just paranoid!'

'Stop it! Alright?! Just fucking stop!'

'John-'

'No, Sherlock!' John suddenly gave the detective a sharp shove to the chest. Startled, he cried out. Losing his footing, Sherlock attempted to grab hold of the kitchen counter but instead catches his arm on a stack of clean ceramic plates, bringing them crashing to the floor with him, shattering with a blunt crack. The sound does not seem to reach John's conscious mind however as he continues to shout. Sherlock too could no longer hear, John. He was dazed. Instead, he found himself pressing his palms to his ears as a different, more malignant voice entered his head. No. No, go away!

'I've had it with you, Sherlock!' John blared. 'You can't even tell your best friend the truth! The best friend that is trying to help you! The best friend that feels physically broken to see you in that much pain! All of us, all your friends are trying to help you, Sherlock, why can't you just see that?!'

The doctor stops to take a breath, and it's only then he realised what he's done. Sherlock was bundled in on himself against the kitchen cupboard, eyes tightly shut, hands pressed firmly over his ears. His breaths rasped horridly in and out of his throat as he failed to maintain a level of calm. John's hands suddenly came to his mouth. 'Oh my God…Sherlock, Sherlock, I'm so sorry!' He quickly crouched down, reaching out a hand to help Sherlock up but the detective shrinks away from him. John was taken aback by this. Before he could do anything else, however, Sherlock was navigating a safe place to put his hand amidst the shards of shattered ceramic and pushing himself up from the floor. John got up taking a step forward. 'Here, let me help you.' But the consultant flinches away.

John suddenly looked frightened. 'Sherlock…'

Sherlock's fingers groped blindly for his coat, eyes fixed on John's hands. 'I think I should go.' He muttered hurriedly.

John protested. 'No, no, wait!'

Sherlock fled, half walking, half running, to the door. John reached out to him but his fingers missed his sleeve. 'No! You're hurt. Sherlock, you're hurt!'

Sherlock looked down to see warm, crimson blood dribbling in a splintered stream down his hand to his fingertips. He snatched his scarf from the floor bounding it tightly round his hand. 'Doesn't matter. I have to go.'

Before he knew it, John heard the sound of the front door slamming. It hit him like a heavy punch to the chest.

That's it… He thought. I've final pushed him too far…

He silently turned on his heals surveying the mess in the kitchen, suppressing the urge not to cry again. The petulant buzz of the fridge the only remaining shrapnel of sound left after the cacophonous fight. The doctor went to move but suddenly doubled with a gasp, feeling a sharp pain shoot up his leg. He struggled over to the table sitting down heavily in one of the wood chairs. He pressed the heel of his palm to his thigh, trying to knead away the ache in his muscles, knead away the horrible thoughts bombarding his mind. He looked down on the floor to see one of the shattered pieces at his feet. In it, his is sorry reflection stared back at him. A self-loathing rage suddenly took hold of him and he viciously kicked the piece skittering away. He folded helplessly to the wood of the table, face pressed into the crook of his elbow. _'God, what have I done…?'_

* * *

 ** _Was it bad? It was bad, wasn't it. Oh dear... Let me know what you think and what you'd like to see or happen next. Did you understand the time jump? I just felt like I needed something to kick the narrative forward again because it was growing stagnant in my opinion. I hope it's alright. I'm kinda loosing faith in the story a little... I know what happens for the most part but :/ I've already written the next two chapter so will hopefully be posting soon. Best Wishes :)_**


	19. An Irrevocable Action

_**SALUT! So, I could give a million and one excuses why this has taken me so long but I shall just skip all that and say, 'Doctor Strange'. Reviews from last time are responded to down the bottom. More than ever I think. You guys are great ;)**_

 _ **Hope this chapter's okay, takes a while to get going. I'm not overly happy with it but... It gets rather aghasty and emotional. Be warned it also contain upsetting/distressing themes. Potentially triggering for some.**_

* * *

'Right, Donovan, I'm going home. You should do the same; we're not getting this one solved tonight. We'll pick it up again in the morning.'

'Alright. Night, Sargent.'

Greg picked up his phone and set of keys from his desk before hitting the light switch with a rounded fist. He strolled through the maze of desks in the now darkened Criminal Investigations Department and then out into the car park to begin the isolated journey.

Lestrade would be returning to an empty house tonight. His wife, Jane, had left him again. Sherlock says she's sleeping with a Primary School teacher in Newport; Greg suspected all too well that this was true. Despite this, the DI knew he would still be here when she finally decides to return. He knew he'd pretend to be angry but forgive her almost immediately, regardless of what happened. The heart's frailties were always the most dominant over the mind: He loved her…Wholly, and completely and all too deeply. _What else was he to do…?_

The heating in the Inspector's car was still broken. The chilly air condensed at his lips with every out breath. As he drove the now sparse streets of London south, he tugged the edges of his jacket closer around his torso, knowing full well it wasn't going to make a scrap of difference to his body temperature. _It just had to be snowing._ Greg cursed grumpily in his mind.

The road was not covered in a thin blank of white but rather bathed in a sea of icy slush. It made the tires of his car slip rather perilously in and out of control across the dual lane. As he pasted from Clapham North into Brixton, the detective was suddenly snapped from his auto-pilot, pedestrian run of thoughts when he thought he glanced a long, all too familiar, silhouette. He slammed on his breaks, causing the car to slide away at an angle before eventually stopping. Greg twisted around in his seat against the restraints of his seat belt. Lowering the window, and making the car even colder than before, he squinted through the dark and called after the figure behind him. 'Sherlock?!'

The lanky, stick-like figure stopped in his tracks. He slowly turned round, looking at Greg but said nothing. He just stood; sleet dripping off of his sodden, raven curls and black Belstaff coat. Greg's eyebrows suddenly drew together. '…Sherlock?' Greg got out of the car, turning his coat collar up against the down pour. 'What are you doing? It's eleven at night.' He could see the top of the detective's burgundy shirt, turned black as ice slid down his pale neck and saturated the material. 'Sherlock, you must be bloody freezing.'

Sherlock's stared emptily at the Inspector before turning and continuing to walk on down the street. Alarm bells began to ring in DI's head. 'Whoa, whoa, Sherlock, hold on a second.' He sprinted to catch up with the detective. 'What's happened? Something's happened.' Greg suddenly noticed how pale the detective looked. He tried to step towards him but Sherlock stepped away, hugging his arms around his middle protectively. A deep frown found its place in the Inspector's features. _Something was defiantly wrong._ There was an anxiety in Sherlock's eyes that Lestrade sorely disliked. He looked the consultant up and down. 'Sherlock, what have you done…?'

The younger detective suddenly started away from the DI. Lestrade reached out a hand, grabbing Sherlock's coat. Sherlock cried out trying to pull away but Greg only held him tighter. Twisting him around, the Inspector pulled his consultant into a firm embrace. His tanned fingers ran through the detective's damp hair. 'Shhh. Shhh. Shhh. Calm down. Calm down. It's okay.' He hushed, rubbing soothing circles across the detective's back.

Sherlock finally gave in, pushing his face in the DI's shoulder with a sob. 'I've ruined everything.' He whimpered.

Greg frowned. 'Sherlock, what do you mean?'

'I've finally done it,' came a muffled broken voice. 'I've finally driven him away. He's going to leave me and-and-'

Lestrade finally caught up with what Sherlock was talking about. _Shit, he means John_.

He held the detective out at arm's length. 'Whoa, slow down its okay. It's okay. Just calm down. Take a deep breath.' Greg looked about him as the snow cascaded down from above them growing steadily thicker on the frozen ground. 'Come on. We're going to get you out of this weather first, alright? And then we're going to talk about this. I'm sure it's going to be fine. You've probably just misunderstood each other.'

Sherlock tried to lift his head as speak again but all that escaped him was another anguished sob. Greg felt his heart twinge as Sherlock buried his face into his chest, icy pale fingers clutching at the fabric of his coat. He wrapped an arm around the consultant's shoulders. 'Come on, we're going to mine. We need to straighten this out.' He gently began maneuvering the detective towards the car, each foot dragging or tripping up over the other.

The journey home was spent in silence. Greg had tried to distract Sherlock by talking about the weather and about the case that they were currently working on but soon gave up as the detective gave no response. He had managed to stop hysterically crying, but still had tears coursing down his face. Greg felt his insides turn as in his mind's eye he caught a glimpse of Sherlock, 15 years younger, curled in the same position in the passenger seat. Before his brain could engage and stop the words from escaping, they were already leaving his mouth. 'We're scared about you, Sherlock.'

The detective looked across but said nothing, turning his head away to rest on the cold glass of the window. The DI wanted to kick himself. _What was that supposed to achieve?!_

…

The front door closed with a slam. Both detectives now stood in darkened hallway of the Inspector's flat. Ahead of them: a singular staircase. This staircase Sherlock could walk with his eyes closed. This staircase was once his as much as it Lestrade's now.

The pair ascended into the pitch, open plan flat above. Greg was quick to strip the damp jacket from his shoulders, tossing on the back of the nearest armchair. Scrubbing his hands across his arms, he crossed into the kitchen, twisting the thermostat up. 'There,' said the detective 'should warm up a bit in a minute.' A look of equal sympathy and concern crossed the detective's face as he turned to see the consultant hadn't yet shifted an inch from the top of the stairs.

This Sherlock was the same as all the others before, only this one wore a different coat upon his shoulders. The same sorrowful face, glazed and empty, stared down at the floor. The same two fingers twitched unconsciously on his left hand. Greg knew this place, to Sherlock, meant defeat. It meant he'd hit rock bottom again... He was unlikely to get another word from the detective tonight.

The police inspector padded back across the cream carpeted living room to stand before his consultant. Sherlock evidently wasn't here with him, but lost in a whirlwind of terrible thoughts and memories. He took a step forward, reaching out a single hand and placing it very carefully on the detective's arm. 'Sherlock, can you hear me?'

It took a moment but the detective eventually gave a small nod.

Greg smiled softly. 'Okay. Okay, good. Do you want to come and sit down while I get you some dry clothes?'

Sherlock suddenly looked anxious, drawing a breath, shaking his head feverishly at the detective. Greg was quick to calm him, rubbing a reassuring thumb over his arm. 'It's okay. That's okay. You don't have to. You can stay here.'

Sherlock visibly relaxed again. Greg's face couldn't help but twist even further in concern.

'I'll just be a minute okay.'

The DI strode purposely off to his room, rummaging around in the bottom of his wardrobe for a set of Sherlock's old clothes. When he returned to the living room with a folded pair of grey joggers, t-shirt and hoody, Sherlock had sunken to the floor against the wall, arms encircling his knees. . His eyes were screwed tightly shut as if trying to keep the world out, or trying to stop the darkness within from escaping. Greg walked across to the detective, crouching down beside him. He couldn't prevent how his heart sunk as he watched his marvelous Sherlock battle to keep all of his raging emotions inside. The Inspector placed a gentle hand on Sherlock's leg. 'You don't have to do that anymore.' He whispered.

The detective buried his face into his knees with a strangled sob, tears coursing down his face. 'I'm sorry.' He murmured. 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry.'

Greg crouched forward, taking Sherlock's head in his hands and lifting it. 'Sherlock…? Sherlock, look at me.'

Slowly but surely, the consultant's pained icy grey eyes met Lestrade's own.

'You have nothing to apologize for.' The inspector said firmly. 'Whatever's happening, Sherlock, you're stronger than it.'

Sherlock looked hesitantly back at the Inspector but gave a gentle nod, sniffing away his tears.

Greg smiled sympathetically. 'You go get changed into these and then you can tell me what happened and we can fix this, okay? I'll make some tea.'

Sherlock unfurled himself, taking the clothes the Inspector had laid beside him.

'Good lad.' Greg helped the detective to his feet and watched as he crossed to the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

With an exhausted outbreath, Greg ran a hand through his silvery hair before moving to the kitchen. He flicked on the kettle, grabbing two mugs from the dish washer and throwing a tea bag in each. As the detective sat back cross legged against the counter top, his phone began to vibrate in his pocket. He pulled at the device and pressed the receive button.

'Yep?'

'Greg, it-it's John. Listen, have you seen Sherlock at all? We had an argument and he ran off. I've looked in all his usual bolt holes, and then some, but I can't find him. I'm terrified he's gone to go shoot up or-or-'

'John, mate, slow down! It's fine; he's here with me.'

'He is? Is he okay?'

'John, what happened?'

'Oh, god, I- we ended up getting into a fight. I-I noticed he was sort of holding himself weirdly, like his gait, and, there were more bruises, Greg, and I just couldn't take it anymore. I begged him to tell me, to let me help but he just keeps pushing me away and-'

'John, what happened?!' Lestrade uncharacteristically snapped.

'I hit him! I pushed him and, oh gosh I don't even know! But he fell and-' John grimaced as he heard the detective give heavy outbreath. 'Greg, what is it?'

Greg shook his head. 'You _– fucking hell, John, you've no idea what you've just done…_ '

'I…I don't-'

'He was in tears! He was so sure it was all his fault. He was convinced he'd finally driven you too far, finally driven you away. Turns out it was you!'

'But…He could never do that.'

'Yes, we'll he finally thought he had!'

John swallowed, unsure what to say anymore. 'Let…let me help, let me-'

'I think you need to stay away from him tonight before you damage him anymore than you already have.'

'Greg-'

'No, John! You're so sure you're Sherlock's best friend but if you knew him at all you never would have done that to him! You have unearthed the most hideous monster in his head. You'll be lucky if he doesn't flinch away from you're every time you move! You've no idea what you've done!'

'Then tell me! Please - tell me what to do!'

'I'll keep Sherlock with me tonight. We'll talk about this in the morning.

'No! - Greg, please, I'm sorry!'

Greg hung up, throwing the device across the counter. He placed a thumb and finger on the bridge of his nose, forcing out calm through his teeth.

'Please don't yell at him…'

Greg looked up to see Sherlock, now changed, standing before him; the image on forlorn. He blinked in the half light. 'Sherlock, did hurt you?'

'No.

'Sherlock-'

'Only a little – but it's okay.'

'No, Sherlock! Get that idea out of your head right now! It is not okay for people to hurt you!'

Sherlock flinched at the assaulting sound, closing his eyes and pressing his hands over his ears.

It was only then that the DI realized he was even shouting. His face took on a sudden shame. He stepped forward, pulling the consultant forward into an embrace. 'I'm sorry.'

Sherlock melted into the hug, resting his chin on the detective's shoulder. 'I know…' He paused for a moment, debating over whether or not he wanted to ask his next question, fearing its answer. '…Does he hate me?' He whispered finally.

'No, he defiantly doesn't, Sherlock. I think he, like everyone else, is just worried about you. You need to open up to us. You need to let us help you.'

'Tomorrow…'

The Inspector sighed, rubbing a hand gently up and down his consultant's back. 'You're a right pickle; you know that, don't you?'

Greg's eyebrows suddenly drew together, when Sherlock's arms fell away from him slackly. He frowned. 'Sherlock, is everything okay…?'

Sherlock's head suddenly flopped forward momentarily. The DI tried to separate himself from the detective but found him suddenly slipping from his grip. 'Shit! Sherlock can you hear me?!'

The detective stirred slightly, pushing through his feet to remain standing but his legs suddenly gave way.

'SHERLOCK!' Greg lunged for the detective, catching him awkwardly in his arms. Struggling to hold the now motionless weight to his chest, the inspector gently lowered Sherlock to the floor. 'Sherlock?' The detective tapped the consultant's face in an attempt to rouse a response from him…But he'd already lost consciousness _._

Greg swore under his breath, grabbing his phone from the counter, rapidly swiping through his contacts until he found, 'John! Listen, I'm sorry. It's Sherlock. I need you.'

'Greg, what's happening?'

'It-it's Sherlock, he's fallen unconscious and I don't know why. I've noticed him getting paler and paler all evening and now-'

' _Greg…'_ The doctor's voice was suddenly very small. The detective noticed this.

'What? John, what is it?'

'Has he got his scarf in his hands?'

'Yes, he hasn't…' Realization suddenly slapped him across the face; a lead weight dropping to his stomach. 'He- he hasn't let go of it all eve...'

The phone slipped from Greg's fingers. He leapt across the living room to the detective, falling to his knees beside him. He yanked the scarf from Sherlock's motionless hands. His face suddenly dropped numerous shades and he unfolded his palm in shock to find it covered in blood. He looked down at the material. It was saturated… Saturated in blood, and all of it Sherlock's. Lestrade fumbled for his phone hearing the distant muffle of John's voice still talking to him.

'Greg…? Greg, what is it?'

The Inspector swallowed hard, quivering fingers lifting the device to his ear. 'J-John?'

'Greg what's going on?'

'Help…Help me; there's a lot of blood.'

'I'm already on my way. Keep on the line. Can you see how bad his hands are?'

'No – there's just…There are a couple of gashes, and lots of little cut but nothing that would warrant this kind of blood l-…'

'Lestrade…? Greg? Greg what's wrong?!'

There was a hideous silence. John could feel his lungs begin to burn with the breath he didn't notice he was holding. '…Greg?!'

There was a rasp of breath before Greg's tremulous voice appeared again. 'What do I do…?'

John blinked. 'I…I don't understand.'

'He's slit his wrists, what do I do?'

In that split second, John felt all the blood drain from his head. He was sure in that moment he was going to faint.'He…he did what…?'

'JOHN! TELL ME WHAT TO DO!'

'Uh-uh-get a towel, press it the wound, hard as you can and elevate them in the air-his wrists.'

'I don't want to leave him.'

'Just do it!'

'Okay, okay.'

Lestrade did what John instructed, talking with him on the phone until he was pounding on the front door. Greg sprinted downstairs to let doctor in.

'Is he awake?'

'No.'

The doctor, foregoing all formalities, barged past the Inspector, leaping up the stairs two at a time, only hesitating for the smallest of moments as the horrific blood smeared form of his best friend confronted him. He crouched down beside the detective, throwing his medical pact to the floor.

'I need water -cold as you possibly can. I need to restrict blood flow.'

The doctor yanked off Sherlock's hoody and placed it beneath his head, then pulled two elastic tourniquets from his bag, tying them profusely tight around the detective's upper arms. He removed the towel from Sherlock's wrists, grimacing at the ugly sight. Using the already stained fabric, John began to wipe away the excess cruor to proper look at the injuries. He felt the air catch in his throat, his chest growing tight as he worked to keep his emotions at bay. 'Come on, Watson. Get a grip.' As Greg returned with the water, John handed him a clip. 'Here put this on his finger and keep reading his heart rate to me. The Inspector did as asked while the doctor's hands moved with speed and precision. '49 BPM… John that's-'

'I know!' Came the doctor's muffled snap as he ripped some gauze in half with the aid of his teeth. He pressed the towel to the detective's wrists with his knee. 'How about now?'

'46 BPM.'

'Fuck it!' John abandoned his work, pulling a metallic tube from his case. Swiping a Saline drenched cloth across the cuts and twisting the cap off the tube, John began squeezing copious amount of transparent Hemostatic Agents into the wounds. Getting some stick on stitches, John pressed the gashes together in turn and then began furiously wrapping gauze around them. 'Rate?'

'39…'

'Elevate his legs-Now!'

Greg was quick to maneuver the detective. John's hands moved faster and faster as he made up a solution of stimulant and solution of electrolyte. 'And now?'

'33…32… John it's dropping really quickly.'

John snatched a syringe and mixed the two solutions inside. 'He's gonna hate me for this.' John pulled up Sherlock's t-shirt and quickly began counting the ribs on his left side from the bottom upwards, mumbling each number under his breath. Then, with pin point precision, John pushed the needle into Sherlock's side, dispensing the clear solution into his blood stream. He then swiftly removed the needle, placing a ball of cotton over the puncture sight and taping it down. 'How's he doing?' he asked breathlessly.

'24… But it doesn't appear to be dropping.'

'Good. Keep an eye it.'

The doctor began re-arranging Sherlock's limbs, placing him in recovery to open his airways. He then pulled a torch pen from his pocket and began testing his reflexes, lifting each eyelid and searching his unseeing pupils. 'Bloody hell!'

'What? What's wrong?'

'Somehow this jammy bugger has managed to keep his brain's processing preliminary response pathways active and all with sod all oxygen.'

'Is that a good thing?'

'That's bloody marvelous!-What's his heart rate now?'

'56, and climbing! Jesus! What did you give him, because, whatever it is, I could do with some on a Monday morning.'

John smirked at Lestrade's comment before beginning tapping the detective's face. 'Sherlock…? Sherlock can you hear me?'

Sherlock's eyelids began to flutter, head turning away from the assault on his senses. A grin spread across the doctor's face. 'Got ya...' He whispered warmly, unable to keep the excitement from his voice. He scooped one arm up. 'Come on. We're taking him to a hospital.'

Greg stooped down, taking the other arm and "on three" they heaved the detective from the floor. Sherlock still too weak to stand just hung limply from the two older men's shoulders, head lulling forward. This is perhaps why neither of heard his feeble voice as he tried to speak. _'Dn't…'_

Greg and John with their dead weight began walking clumsy-footed across the living room to the stairs, each trying to maintain a sense of balance so as to not drop, the treasure in their arms.

' _John…'_

John stopped, finally hearing his best friend's voice. 'Sherlock…? Are you with us?'

' _Ho…Hosp-'_

'I know, Sherlock. That's where we're taking you.'

' _N…no, hospit…'_

'Sherlock, you're having a laugh if you think I'm not taking you to a bloody hospital.' The doctor tried to power on but couldn't when he found Greg wasn't moving?'What?'

'He's…He's right. We can't take him.'

'Are you mad?! He's lost too much blood. He needs to go.'

'No, John. He'll…They'll section him under the mental health act. He can't-'

'If he's done what I think he's done tonight then he needs to be sectioned under the mental health act! And what's more, I'll be one of the doctors who signs the papers!'

'John, that's horrid!'

'Good.'

' _You don't understand-'_

' _I know!'_ John screamed.

There was a sudden horrid silence. All the emotion he'd been suppressing just came clamoring to one chaotic point. There was nothing John could do to stop the tears from falling down his face.

' _I know I don't understand!'_ He sobbed. ' _I don't understand what's happened to my best friend. I don't understand why he won't talk to me, won't tell me the truth. Why he won't let me help him! I don't understand why,_ _ **how**_ _we got to here! How he could ever think he was so alone that this was the only way out. I don't understand why he'd make me sit and watch him fall apart for the past six months when I love him so much it hurts. He's gone! He's gone and I don't understand where he's gone, only that I desperately, desperately need him back! I need-'_

John stopped with a feverish gasp as two arms suddenly latched around his middle. Sherlock had let go of Greg and now half stood, half clung to John, head pressed into the arch of his neck. The doctor encompassed the detective, burying his face into the detective's chest. _'Where are you, Sherlock…?'_ The doctor wept quietly. _'Not having you here with me is agony…'_

' _I'm right here...'_ Sherlock whispered. _'Where I've always been.'_

John squeezed the detective into his arms, tears falling to his shoulder. _'I've missed you more than words can say. And watching you die alive was ten times worse than ever having to watching you die a death. I thought that was unbearable but this is_ …Sherlock…? _Sherlock!'_

…

John didn't understand what was happening when people in florescent jacket's we're removing his friend from him. He didn't understand was wrong. He had his Sherlock back. Nothing in the world could be wrong… But as Lestrade had watched the doctor squeeze his soul mate into a tight embrace, he was the only one to see Sherlock break as months of damaging abuse and vicious assault was pressed together into one debilitating, penetrating blow.

Everything seemed to go into slow motion as Greg lunged for the falling detective. His mouth agonized, contorted in a voiceless scream. He seemed almost materialistic as he crumpled in writhing pain. His pale blue eyes rolling into his head as the inspector beset the detective's shoulders. As they descended to the floor, Greg realized that maybe his scream was not voiceless. Maybe he just couldn't hear anything anymore. But as his adopted consultant folded motionlessly into his arms…He knew for certain there was someone screaming.

* * *

 _ **So... Are you okay? I can give you a shock blanket if you want. Review...? Review? REVIEW? Seriously though I need a hand with what to do next and how to improve. :/**_

 ** _Okay. Where do you want this to go next? I was thinking of sort of jumping time a bit again. Like a couple weeks after Sherlock's recovered from the physical trauma a bit, where he'll open up to John. Or are you guys super keen to have the hospital drama? Let me know!_**

 **Best Wishes! Happy Halloween! - BH**

 **Review Responses!**

 _ **paula. -** Cricky Charlie! Longest comment yet. I agonize with you but the truth shall prevail soon! I know. I hate them yelling at each other but out of it a stronger friendship is forged. Thank you as ever for give such brilliant feed back. I really appreciate it._

 _ **BravePrincess1 -** Emotional but tame... Interesting mix hahaha Thank you for reviewing as usual. You bring a smile to my face :)_

 _ **Anna Catlover** \- 'Crazy about it'... Wow! No-one's ever said that before. Thank you for reviewing! :D_

 _ **Foreveranon13** \- Exceptional...Exceptional, I mean... Wow... Okay. That's incredible that you think that. It means an awful lot to me. Thank you so much. How you finding the fanfiction world? ;)_

 _ **Ernil i Pheriannath -** Your review was way back in chapter one. (If you've made it this far then congrats haha) Thank you for reviewing :)_


	20. Talk To Me

**_Guys! A new chapter written and published in the same day! Two in a week? Have I possibly found my inspiration again?! I even re-wrote this chapter twice!...My college work is doomed. Oh well! Hope everyone has had something to make them smile this week. Review responses will be below as always._**

 ** _The themes discussed are still of a sensitive nature and it gets very...uncomfortable towards the end. PROCEED WITH CAUTION!_**

* * *

John didn't remember the trip to the hospital, or the hours spent lying on painful, plastic chairs in the dimly lit waiting rooms. Nor the artificial lights above persistently buzzing and preventing any form of sleep. He didn't remember the conversations with Sherlock's attending doctors or filling out endless forms on his behalf. He couldn't remember where Greg had been throughout this time; probably right beside him. Perhaps that's why coffee just seemed to appear in his hands?

The only think he remembered was waking up slumped beside a bed, leaden head resting groggily on the mattress. He remembered this, because Sherlock's fingers had been nestled in the graying roots of his hair…

Sherlock had woken up from his comatic state of unconsciousness on day one but neither he nor the doctor had spoken to one another when this had occurred, or on any of the days that followed. Greg had told Sherlock what had happened after he drew up blanks when asked. The last thing the detective could remember was leaving 221B after an argument with John; walking blindly in the snow. This made John's position all the more difficult with Sherlock but made Sherlock's position all the more advantageous when the long and probing mental examination came. With Sherlock's failed memory and Greg's willingness to lie, the detective was discharged from recovery with little strife. Strife, however, is all John felt when he received a list of Sherlock's injuries. The silence continued. The pair returned home four days after the admitting incident and still a word hadn't passed between them. Sherlock hadn't spoken to anybody.

…

November 26th 2016

' _Sherlock…?'_

Greg stepped into the noiseless flat. In the glum winter's light filtering through the gap in the curtains, the cluttered room appeared filtered of all colour, only existing in multi-tonal grey. It was so still and empty, it felt as though the space had been cut from time and existed beyond the laws of physics. The detective walked further into the room, squinting through the gloom for his consultant.

He could see Sherlock's violin sitting on the desk. He must have been playing the thing to death. The hairs on his bow were splitting apart. He walked over to it, picking it up and examining it closer, but jumped as a baritone voice from the dark met him.

'If you were anyone else I would have shot you where you stood.'

Greg turned to see Sherlock curled on the sofa beneath his mass of coat, piercing eyes looking up at him. 'Sherlock, you-'

'Startled you? You should really observe more keenly.'

'No. You shouldn't be playing this.' The detective indicated to the instrument with a nod of his head. 'You're wrists. You've a severed tendon. It can't be good for you?'

'Lestrade, why are you here?' Sherlock snapped.

Greg sighed, taking a seat in Sherlock's armchair. He scrubbed a hand across his tired face. 'Because we never had that conversation on Friday night…'

'Lies.' Sherlock said flatly, turning over to face the wall.

'Alright,' The DI threw his hands in the air, 'John called and said that you weren't talking. He's worried… I'm worried.'

'Well evidently I am. Now you are dismissed.'

'Sherlock…'

'John! Listen to me, I'm talking! You can stop being a mother hen now!'

'Sherlock, stop shouting!' Greg hissed. 'John's not here.'

Sherlock turned over. 'Not here-where's he gone?'

'Out. I said I'd watch you while he got some fresh air and some food for your abused kitchen.'

'Abused… Interesting that you use that word.'

'You use the kitchen in way you shouldn't.'

'And that's you definition of the word is it?'

'Sherlock I'm not an idiot! I know what's been going on!'

'Do you now, Inspector?'

Sherlock turned to face the wall again pulling the coat up to his ears.

Greg got up, crossing the room. He stood at the edge of the sofa looking down at his consultant. 'Get up.'

Sherlock turned over aggressively, looking up at the detective. 'No.'

'Get up. We're going for a walk.'

'No. I'm not supposed to.'

'No. The doctor said you're not to do any sport or vigorous movement –

'Like sex.'

'Like dance, Sherlock, or getting into another fight. Don't think mentioning subjects you find alarming is going to make me frightened of you.'

'Sex doesn't alarm me.'

'Sherlock's what's so bad you can't tell me, hmm?'

Sherlock sat up silently looking the detective blankly in the face. His eyes followed the DI as he crouched down in front of him. 'Out. Now. I don't want to talk.'

The Inspector's eyes flickered over the consultant. Beneath his coat, he was wearing a pair of cotton pyjamas: Blue striped trousers and a light grey t-shirt. The blue seemed to be the only colour in the room.

'Sherlock, what are you experiencing at the moment? Low mood, loss of appetite, tired?'

'I'm not depressed.'

'Have you taken any drugs?'

'Prescribed ones.'

'You know what I mean, Sherlock.'

'No, I haven't.'

'Are you planning to?'

'No.'

'Have you been lying to me the minute I walked in?'

'Yes! Now will you kindly get out?!'

Sherlock raised his voice but the DI wouldn't bite, remaining a cool demeanor.

'Are you thinking about hurting yourself?'

'Lestrade-' Sherlock's tone was now one of warning.

'Sherlock, answer my question. Anderson isn't wrong; you have a history of self-harm.'

Sherlock gave a disbelieving smirk, shaking his head. He got up crossing the room to the door. 'You're leaving now.'

'Don't smile because this isn't funny. This is your life we're talking about, Sherlock. I'm not leaving. I promised John I'd look after you.'

'What? In case I try and kill myself again?! Well, I promise you I won't.'

'You remember?'

'Of course I remember! I remembered almost immediately as we got home. The end of Audley Street reminded me...'

'Why didn't you say anything?'

'Because if I don't remember then everyone else doesn't talk about it.'

'Shouldn't it be talked about? John wants to talk about it. He believes it's his fault.'

'Well, it's not. You can get out now.'

The detective stared at his consultant sternly, taking a step forward. 'Talk to me.'

'No.'

'Sherlock, talk to me.'

'I said no.'

'Sherlock, you think I won't understand but we've been here before. We can fix this. But you need to trust me.'

'There is nothing to fix.'

'Don't do this, Sherlock, please. '

Sherlock ambled across to the fire place, removing a pack of cigarettes from beneath his skull. He pinched one between his pale lips. Striking a match on the mantel piece slate, he lit it and waved the match out. He removed it from his mouth again and placed the packet back. 'If you don't mind I have work to do.' He picked up several books from the floor and slammed them down onto the kitchen table. 'Be so kind as to leave me.'

Greg looked desolately at the detective. 'You said to me, Sherlock, when this all began back in the summer, that if your dad appeared back in your life you'd tell me… Do our promises mean anything to you anymore?'

'He's not back.' Sherlock cut in, looking up at the Inspector. 'I swear.'

Greg looked disconsolately at the ground. 'I've lost all faith in you, Sherlock… I don't know who you are anymore. I've lost sight of you. What happened to that kid that used to trust me with the world…?'

'Dead.'

Greg flinched at this. He was silent for a moment. He glanced up at the detective before returning his gaze to his feet. 'You're off the cases, Sherlock.'

Sherlock stepped forward opening his mouth in protest but Lestrade cut him off before he was able to speak.

'No, Sherlock. Until you tell me the truth, John the truth, then you'll no longer work for me. I need to be working with people I can trust and I can't trust you, Sherlock, not anymore.'

He turned to leave but stopped before he reached the stairs. His voiced called out reaching for the detective. 'That kid isn't lost, Sherlock. But he's certainly dying. Save him before it's too late.' And with that, the DI was gone.

Sherlock stood alone for the moments after. He stubbed out his fag on the coffee table before lowering himself to the sofa. Voices began to crowd his head, first whispering in his ears and then penetrating deeper into his brain. They were the same ones that had taunted him in his sleep; the one's that robbed him of peace. He curled in on himself, pressing his hands to his ears.

 _Really well done, genius…_

 _Could you get anymore stupid?_

 _Can form molecular bonds but can't manage those of a relationship._

 _You really thought he was your friend?_

 _Poor little, Sherlock._

 _Fancy dotting off yet?_

 _There's some morphine sulphate behind the tile on the mantle._

… _Go and get it._

 _What would mummy say?_

 _Mother can go to hell!_

 _Lonely, little, innocent, Sherlock…_

 _Innocence…?_ _ **You'd beg for it wouldn't you?**_

Sherlock, in a cry of anger, swiped the books he'd placed on the kitchen from its surface, sending them arching and thumping to the floor. This is perhaps why he didn't hear the front door click closed. He doubled over, seething as he felt a fiery pain spread through his chest.

 _Watch it you moron! Broken ribs remember?!_

'Shut _up_!' Sherlock screamed arms wrapped around his midsection. _Wait! Wait! Kitchen. How did I get here? –I was just…_

'Still dissociating are we?'

Sherlock gasped turning on his heels. 'How did you get in here?'

There on the other side of the room was his father, sat aristocratically on the sofa one leg crossed over the other, eyeing his son dubiously. 'I acquired a key.' He said mildly.

'Acquired how...?'

Sherlock started and began to stumble backwards as his father stood up. 'No, no, stay away from me!'

'I've missed you, Sherlock. You've been away for a few days. I had to visit your brother instead.'

Sherlock looked horrified. 'You did what?!'

Mr. Holmes ignored his son's question are continued with this own thoughts. 'He was frightfully boring though, I enjoy being around you much more.'

Before he knew it, Sherlock found his father's spindly hands slipping up and across his waist. Sherlock squirmed trying to distance himself. The touch made his body feel wrong. It caused his stomach to twist and his skin tingle unpleasantly. 'Get off me…' He whispered.

The detective suddenly felt a hand on the back of his neck, as well as another still drawing on his torso. A hot heavy breath was also at his neck... He could feel himself…drifting…

 _ **No! You need to stay here or else he'll - Focus!**_

Sherlock seized, shoving his father away. 'Don't touch me!'

Siger gave his son a lopsided smile. 'What's up, Sherlock; Something the matter?'

'You-you said you wouldn't do that.'

'But I thought you would have changed your mind.'

'I will never change my mind, you-you-vile-'

Siger threw his head back in laughter. 'Oh, Sherlock, you were always the funny one. The rebellious, independent spirit that thought he could change the world. Have you still not grown up?'

'I've had enough of you. You're going to leave. Leave me and leave Mycroft alone and never return.'

'Sherlock, do you really think I need to listen to a word you say?' Sherlock's elder began closing the space between them. He reached out with both hands taking the edges of the consultant's coat. 'Or have you forgotten you're under my thumb?' He yanked the detective in and began wrestling the coat from his shoulders. Sherlock screamed as his father's twenty hands were suddenly all over him. Siger pushed Sherlock back into his armchair, straddling the detective. Sherlock continued to scream until a heavy hand was pushed to his mouth. He gasped trying to claw it away. Tears began to prickly in his eyes as he found every resisting action useless

'Sherlock… Everything is going to be okay if you do as I say.'

Sherlock began to thrash around beneath his father's legs, muffled cries of objection to what was about to be done to him. The tears began to make their way down his face. Siger removed the hand from Sherlock's mouth and pressed a long, bony finger to his lips. 'Shhh. You be quiet now, won't you?'

Sherlock shivered as he felt the cool air leaching at his skin.

* * *

AH! That was positively horrid. It makes me squirm from my own memories x(  
Hopefully that wasn't too unbearable. Yes I know, I said I was going to get Sherlock to tell John but it didn't seem quite the write time when I was writing it. Plus, I wanted some Parental!Greg because I love it. Fancy...REVIEWING? hahaha  
The ending was rather abrupt and... disturbing but the reason for that will become clear. It was intentional.  
Sherlock on this was experiencing moments of dissociative fugue and depersonalisation. If you want to know more I've left a cheeky link below. Just remove the brackets ;)

( . ) /information-support/types-of-mental-health-problems/dissociative-disorders/#.WBzyQCusWCg

* * *

 **REVIEW RESPONSES.**

 **Soberdog -** Your shock blanket has been dispatched. Hahaha. After this chapter do you need the hot chocolate and marshmallows to go with it?

 **Carter Stark -** Favorite? Blimey. Um, wow, thank you so much. I'm so sorry I made you cry. I myself oddly actually got a bit emosh writing it haha You're words are so kind and I feel I am unworthy of them. When I read your review I actually said 'Oh, you're lovely' out loud. Wasn't awkward at all :3 hahaha Thank you again for reviewing. I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations.

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	21. Fever of the Brain

_**Two chapter's within twenty-four hours! SoMEOnE HiGH fiVe ME!**_

 _ **This chapter is quite a bit tamer than the previous two. Nothing too distressing. But frankly I just want to hug Sherlock to keep him strong and I want to hug John for being so wonderfully supportive.**_

 _ **You lot need a hug as well for being so supportive. The fact that some of you have favorited me as a writer is mind-bending. Thank you so much! Hope you enjoy this next chapter. Let me know what you think. Good or bad, I'd like to know :) x**_

* * *

Sherlock started awake with a gasp. _The floor. Why am I on the floor?_ He tried to move but found himself affronted with dizziness. The weight of his own body was pushing down on his lungs. It pained him to draw breath. Sherlock's mind suddenly began to spiral into a panic. _Oh, God! How did I get down here? What happened?!_

'Sherlock!'

Sherlock's head suddenly cleared. That was John's voice…He sounded alarmed.

Sherlock winced, arms quaking as he pushed himself up from the floor. His mind was caught momentarily as he felt silken fabric fall across his arm. _Dressing gown…? When did I put that on? I had my coat on._ His name was called again. He looked up. 'John?!'

John came bounding up the stairs almost crashing into the detective as they met on the landing.

'John, what is it?'

'Your brother, I came home and he was collapsed outside in the street.'

Sherlock barged past the doctor, thundering down the stairs. He leapt out of the door, still barefooted. The icy pavement immediately started to bite and snatch the heat from his feet. As John had said, his brother was laid out on the pavement, crumpled on his side, evidently unconscious. Sherlock ran forward, dropping to the politician's side. 'Mycroft? Mycroft, wake up!' His hands came to rest on either side of the politician's face, searching for a hint of acknowledgement. 'Mycroft?!' He placed a hand on his head but quickly recoiled with a sharp gasp of horror. Imprinted on his hand; warm blood. That was one of the only times the detective swore. He lent over his brother again, 'Mycroft?! Mycroft, can you hear me?'

 _Nothing._

Sherlock turned as he heard his flatmate's footfalls approach the door. 'John! John, I need your help. He's bleeding.'

The doctor dashed forward and with quick, methodical reflexes, scoured the man's vitals. He moved to pick up the politician but the detective stopped him, grabbing his wrist. 'Don't. You're leg.'

'I'm fine, Sherlock.'

'John, don't think I haven't noticed. Just go and get your supplies. I'll bring him up. '

'You've just come out of hospital!'

'I'll be fine! Just go!'

John rushed off into the house as Sherlock struggled to lift his brother from the floor.

As he walks into their apartment, John is already crouched on the floor with his medical bag beside him. 'Put him on the sofa.' he said sturnly.

Sherlock does as he is told, being careful with his brother's head. 'What happened?' he asked quietly, trying to prevent his upset reflecting in his voice.

'I-I don't know.' John replied. 'He was just there when I approached the flat. - Can you get me a bowl and fill it with water from the tap, please?'

Sherlock swiftly nodded, getting up and striding towards the kitchen. The doctor turned his attention onto his patient. Pulling off his jacket, John rolled up the politician's shirt sleeves. He placed a small, electronic clip on Mycroft's index finger. After a moment the device beeped and the rectangular display informed John of the politician's heart rate and oxygen saturation level. He was relieved to see both were not too far from normal. Sherlock returned with the water placing it next to his flat mate. 'Here.'

'Thank you.' He pulled a tuft of cotton wool from his paramedic's bag. 'Sherlock, where was the bleeding?'

'Head.'

'Right.' The doctor was quick to locate the exact location of the blood flow and cleaned away the excess to see the wound better.

'Is it bad?' Sherlock whispered anxiously.

'No. No, it's alright. Just a bit of a nasty cut but I wouldn't say there was any damage to the skull itself.'

At this point, Sherlock rocked back on his heels, looking towards the ceiling with an outwards breath.

'Just a bit of glue, will do it I think.' John added with a gentle smile.

Sherlock got up, scratching his hands through his hair. He walked over to the fireplace picking up his phone from where he had left it the night previous. He rapidly typed out a message before replacing the device. He then proceeded to lean against the bookcase with folder arms, head coming to rest on the wall beside him. All the energy he'd woken up with had now all but vanished. He observed his brother's strangely peaceful face. _Why had he been here? Where was his PA, his team? Surely they'd been watching him…Unless he came here without telling them? But why would he do that?_

The detective in his thoughts had become mesmerized by his flatmate's skilful hands. After a couple minutes the doctor sat back on his heels. 'Done.' He turned to Sherlock who gave a weak smile. 'That was quick.' came his deep baritone voice.

The doctor gave an awkward grin. 'Just practice, I guess. Just leave that to set for a few minutes.' John returned to his bag, pulling out a syringe. 'I'm going to give a stimulant to wake him up. With a knock to the head like that he'll likely have concussion. It's not good for people with concussion to stay out in case-'

'In case they fall into a coma.' the detective finished. 'I know.'

John smirked to himself, shaking his head. 'Of course you knew. You're Sherlock Holmes.'

'And I'm as clever as it gets.'

John couldn't help but feel a glow at Sherlock's reference to their adventure beneath the palace of Westminster. He had honestly thought he was going to die that night. But then he had honestly believed that when Sherlock Holmes said he didn't have any information in his mind-palace about bombs, that he was telling the truth.

Sherlock was now at his side. John turned his gaze on the detective to see him holding out an alcoholic wipe. He took it with a nod. Rubbing the side of Mycroft's pale left arm with it, he pushed the needle into his skin, injecting the compound. John gently removed the syringe and placed it on the coffee table beside him. 'Now, this should take around a minute to take effect.' He said, peeling the back off a small plaster.

Sherlock suddenly got off of the floor at considerable speed.

'He's going to be disorientated,' John called. 'So you might want to get the bucket from under the sink because he's likely going to be-'

Sherlock skidded across the floor on his knee stopping just in front of the sofa as Mycroft rolled onto his side and threw-up unto the bucket in his waiting hands. '-Sick.' John finished. 'Nice timing.'

'Thank you.' the detective panted breathlessly.

Mycroft opened his eyes with a grown.

'Thank you for that brother, dear.' Sherlock gibed.

'You're welcome.' He replied weakly. 'Making up for all the time you OD-ed.'

'Oh, look! He's better already!' Sherlock sneered.

He stood up walking into the kitchen, taking a seat on the edge of the table. 'That wasn't funny...'

'I know but I do love to- Ah!' Mycroft winced as he tried to prop himself up on his elbows. 'No, no don't try to get up.' John said pushing Mycroft's shoulder's back down onto the sofa. 'You'll only be sick again.'

'I'm fine, Doctor Watson, honestly; just a bit of a headache.'

'You need to just lie still for a couple minutes so your body can re-establish a sense of balance, and that's just a bit of an understatement. Christ, you're as bad as each other.' John said looking between the pair.

Sherlock cast his eyes away as he pretended he hadn't heard anything.

'I'll give you some Codeine to numb the pain. You're head's probably throbbing, isn't it.' Mycroft regrettably gave a small nod.

'Can you get me a glass of water, please?' There was stillness for a moment. John turned round. 'Sherlock..?'

Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion. He pointed to himself. John rolled his eyes. 'Yes you. I'm hardly going to be talking to your brother, am I?'

The detective sighed and reluctantly got off of the table. He crossed over to the sink, filling up a glass tumbler. 'Should have left him in the street for the crows to peck at.' Sherlock mumbled moodily. He skulked back into the living room. John took the glass. 'Thank you.' He turned back to Mycroft. 'Do you think you're alright to sit up?'

'Yes. I was two minutes ago.'

'If you're going to keep sassing me, I'll sedate you again.'

'No you're not!' Sherlock butted in. 'He's not staying any longer than he has to.'

'Aww, brotherly love.' John got up off of the floor to help Mycroft sit but his hands were waved away. 'I'm fine, John.'

'He can't stand help, John. It dents his pride.'

'I have to say, I am quite embarrassed.' Mycroft admitted, struggling with a tight outward breath into an upright position. 'That hasn't happened to be in quite some time-Thank you.' He accepted the glass of water being held out to him. John also handed him two pink tablets which the politician was quick to swallow. 'Yeah, what exactly did happen?' John said, packing up his equipment back into his bag.

'My brother is very susceptible to both the extravagant heat and the perishing cold and has been known, on occasion, to faint.'

Mycroft eyed his brother carefully. 'Yes. It's…most inconvenient.'

'You took quite a knock to the head, though.' John protected. 'I've patched you up but I would still recommend going to the hospital, just to ensure there is no bleeding in the brain.'

'I normally feel it coming on but it came over me quite suddenly. I didn't have time to find a seat.'

Sherlock hummed sceptically from the corner of the room. 'It is quite cold outside, today.'

Mycroft tried to conceal the deathly stare he shot his brother from the doctor but it didn't go unnoticed. He coughed awkwardly to break the silence. 'Well, plenty of water, as always. Those tablets have an anti-sickness compound in them but they will also make you drowsy so don't drive.- You're not in pain anywhere else other than your head are you?'

'No, no, I'm quite fine, Doctor Watson, thank you.'

'Quite.' Sherlock mirrored. His pale blue eyes moved from Mycroft to John to Mycroft again. He drew a sharp breath. 'John, could you give me and my brother a moment, please?' John looked awkwardly between the pair. 'Sure. I-uh-needed to take this bag back upstairs anyway he said, referencing to his paramedics pack dangling from his fingertips. He coughed nervously again and began walking towards the hallway. Sherlock watched him go, waiting for him to get a safe distance up the creaky staircase before-

'-It was him.'

Mycroft looked up. 'No, it wasn't.'

Sherlock moved off of the wall and paced towards his brother. 'It was because you immediately knew who I was talking about.'

'No,' Mycroft drooled sarcastically. 'I just know who 'him', according to you, is.'

Sherlock knelt down in front of his brother, hands clasped together. 'Why are you lying to me…?' He breathed deeply.

'I'm not. You said yourself; I'm susceptible to the weather.'

'Where's your team?'

'I went out without them.'

'Why?'

'I fancied a walk. I thought I'd pop in and see my ungrateful little brother.'

Sherlock stood up abruptly feeling the anger already beginning to bubble in his chest. 'It's two point four eight miles from your office. You didn't walk all that way; you're drove and parked your unmarked car two streets away.'

'You couldn't have worked that out.' The politician jibed.

'I could.' Sherlock replied matter of factly. 'But you're not the only one with a little surveillance team.'

'Is it an issue I wanted to walk?'

'Yes, because you're hardly going to succumb to the cold in the three and a half minutes it takes to walk from where you parked and you'd have to come into contact with "people". You never drive yourself and you don't walk!' The detective spat the last two words out, markedly furious.

'Sherlock, what happened before John returned home?

Sherlock suddenly frowned, eyebrows coming together. 'I…I don't-'

'You've been experiencing some confusion, haven't you? Still are. I could see it in your face the minute I woke up.'

Sherlock shook his head slowly. 'I don't-'

'Sherlock…?' 'John was now lingering in the door way. 'Is everything okay?'

The anxiousness represented in the detective's physicality melted away, replaced with his typical upright tension. 'Everything's fine.' He said coldly, still eyeing his brother. He turned to face the doctor. 'I'm going to get his car and I'm taking him home.'

Mycroft sighed with a roll of his eyes. John shuffled the living room. 'Sherlock, just come here for a second. You're looking a bit white.'

Sherlock stepped away from the doctor's beckoning hand. 'No. You need to stop being so paranoid and he need to go home.'

Mycroft opened his mouth to object but Sherlock was quick to snap at him.

'Home!' Sherlock snatched the set of keys from Mycroft's jacket pocket and threw the coat on back of the Doctor's armchair. 'John, I want you to check my brother for bruising anywhere else. If you find anything, text me exactly what and where. Don't let him leave.' With that, Sherlock picked up his coat and shoes and stormed down the steps to the flat below, slamming the front door behind him. John turned slowly to look at Mycroft who now had his eyes closed, the long fingers of his right hand nestled in his auburn hair.

'And I thought having a sister was bad.' He said quietly.

…

The pair drove in silence down the crowded, dreary streets of London. It was now late afternoon and every tourist, employee, college and university student now filled the pavements trying to make the most of what little free time they had. They all bore the faces of misery. It was long past the beautiful section of autumn, with coloured leaves and jumpers and fireworks and still a few days yet until it was socially acceptable to get Christmas Decorations out. Everyone therefore existed in the bleak, damp and cold.

Mycroft sat in the passenger seat, shirt sleeves still rolled up to his elbows. His head rested against the cool glass window to his left. His eyes drifted from person to person with little care although Sherlock was sure the politician was making his own little deductions. The detective was trying to keep his eyes on the road but he couldn't stop himself from glancing at his brother from the corner of his eye. 'Why do you never tell me the truth?' he muttered.

Mycroft tilted his head to look at his younger sibling. 'I do tell you the truth.' He said flatly.

Sherlock sighed. 'Look, Mycroft, you may be the smart one but I am most definitely not stupid.'

Mycroft smirked sarcastically. 'Gosh, that was almost modest of you. Almost…'

'Oh, I don't know why I bother talking to you!' Sherlock said throwing his head to the window beside him. 'You-you spend so much time butting in on my life and you-you never let me in yours.'

'I'm caring for you when I do.'

'That's what I'm doing!' Sherlock's voice was raised but was quick to lose all intensity. 'That's what I'm trying to do…'

Mycroft stared at his brother wordlessly, mouth slightly agape. 'Sherlock, I-'

'Just leave it.'

'Sherlock-'

'I said leave it!'

The pair continued the rest of the journey silently. When they finally arrived outside the politician's House in Smith Square, Mycroft got out of the car, blazer draped over his arm with a small mutter of thanks. As he slammed the car door shut, Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket and began to type. Mycroft drew to a halt before his front door and reached into his pocket. He fished his mobile out, eyes flittering over the screen.

 _You lied to me, My… Why didn't you tell me about your rib?_

Mycroft turned wide-eyed in horror. Sherlock was now standing before him. 'How-How did you-'

'Know? How could I not? It's the same as me. Same as he always does.'

Mycroft went to protest but Sherlock stopped him. 'You may be able to fool John but you'll never fool me. When you woke up your hand immediately went to your side, not your head… Why didn't you tell him? He could have helped.'

'Because I didn't want you to know.'

'Know it was father.'

Mycroft looked shamefully at his feet. 'Sherlock, when I woke up and saw how distressed you were- I didn't want you to know it was father who hurt me because then you'd think-

'Father was in the house with me.'

Mycroft looked forlornly at his little brother. 'He stole my key… I'm sorry. I tried to...'

'I know.' Sherlock said quietly.

Mycroft anxiously clenched and unclenched his fingers. 'Do you remember what happened?'

Sherlock looked dejectedly down at the pavement not wanting to make eye contact with his brother. 'No… I-I don't think.' The detective was evidently struggling to grapple with his thoughts. '…His cologne…it's-it's on my skin.'

Mycroft grimaced. 'Did he…?'

Sherlock's chin was now at his chest. He shook his head disconsolately, trying to force back a sea of overwhelming emotions again. 'I –I don't-'

'That's okay.' Mycroft reassured softly. 'Our minds will do what is necessary to preserve us.'

The politician held out a hand. Sherlock unwillingly handed him his left arm with a grimace. Mycroft pulled up his brother's sleeve, exposing his pale flesh to the biting air. He turned it over in his palm gently, trying to ignore the healing cut on his brother's wrist. His fingertips slowly began to draw up his brother's arm. Sherlock drew a sharp breath, quickly shutting his eyes. 'My…'

'I know, Sherly.' Mycroft's finger's drifted further up his brother's forearm, dancing across his tendons. Sherlock's face twisted, as he began tracing a line up to the crook of his elbow. 'My, it's horrid, stop.'

Mycroft ignored his brother's plea, holding his wrist tightly as he tried to recoil. 'Just a couple more second's Sherly.' He began lightly drawing his nails down the side of the detective's inner arm, watching how all his hairs suddenly stood on end. Sherlock squirmed, a whimper escaping his lips. _'My-!'_

Mycroft stopped, closing Sherlock's hand, bringing it to rest against his lips. He rubbed soothing circles across his brother's knuckles. 'Judging by your reflexes, I'd say he's touched you, but he didn't...'

Sherlock's head sunk into his brother's shoulder. Mycroft suddenly felt as if he was twenty three again, holding his exhausted younger after a long and ugly night. His arm rose to envelop his sibling but the politician stopped himself… _Sentimentality never helped anyone. '_ Is any of it coming back to you?' he said softly.

'Sides…' Sherlock mumbled into his coat. 'Stomach, shoulders, neck, back, calves, popliteus… But it's foggy.'

'That's okay.' Mycroft replied quietly. 'It's for the best.'

…

The drive to Mycroft's office, though short, seemed drawn out. The shifting of the cars, taxis' and buses blurred into one movement. All the buzzing, blurting noises of life blended into one low moaning hum. Sherlock lost all focus as he drove, nearly careering through a set of red traffic lights and drifting into the lane next to him. He couldn't tell you what the people walking along the quickly darkening bank were wearing. Or what hour the clock of Westminster had chimed. His only focus was on his thoughts. He couldn't mute them. They plagued him like a burning fever. _"Fever of the brain" that's what they called madness back in the olden days, wasn't it?_

He nearly missed the office and had to slam on his brakes causing the person in the car behind to swerve and shout angrily at him. Sherlock threw his arms over his head, heart leaping out of his chest _. 'Christ…'_ He hissed. He pulled his hands down across his face.

He needs to relax. Just to sleep. A sleep without being tormented by voices in his head or memories before his eyes. He just needed to turn off. To stop. _He just need to-_

There was a knock at the window at his side. He pulled the hand's from his face, turning. It was "Anthea".

'Hello.' She said with a small wave.

'Sorry.' Sherlock said getting awkwardly out of the car. 'I, um… here you go. I suppose he told you what happened.'

'Yes. Fainted. That's unfortunate.'

'Unfortunate.' Sherlock mirrored absentmindedly.

'He likes Wednesday.' She smiled.

Sherlock gave a sideways smile back but his eyes did not match his lips. He turned to walk back to the main road but found himself stopping to look at the PA again. 'Listen. Can…Can you make sure he goes to a hospital. Tomorrow or, Friday-Just…. Doctor Watson-'

'Recommended a CT scan, yes.'

Sherlock nodded. Of course he did. 'Make sure he hasn't got any bad breaks or fractures either.' The detective continued in an unusually timid fashion. 'He, um… Hit the ground quite hard I think.'

'No problem.' The assistant said brightly, tapping away at her phone. Sherlock observed her for a moment. He turned to leave again but was stopped by Anthea's voice. 'And are you okay?' Sherlock turned to see the women still looking intently at her smart phone. 'Sorry?' 'You heard.'

'I-' Sherlock was taken aback. 'I'm fine.'

'You we're sitting in the car with your hands over your face for ten minutes.' The detective was surprised to hear the PA say this. He was sure it had only been a few seconds. 'I was just…thinking.'

'You Holmes men do that a lot.'

Sherlock nodded subconsciously chewing his bottom lip. 'Well, um, afternoon.'

'Good evening, Sherlock.' Anthea watched the slender detective stride away, back towards the main road with an amused, sleight of hand smile.

Once he had disappeared around the corner, the assistant put the phone to her ear, tapping her finely manicured finger against the case as she waited for the receiver to pick up. 'Mr Holmes? You're right. He's not okay.'

* * *

 **Aww, my poor little Sherlock. :( What did you think about Mycroft just suddenly rocking up after leaving Sherlock to fend for himself for so long? I think it's possibly suspicious. I don't know how or why yet but... hahaha What did you think? PM me or drop me a review. I'd be interested to hear any conspiracy theories you guys have going.**

 **Have a good bonfire night! Check your bonfire's for Johns! Aha ;)**


	22. I Never Knew Atheists Could Pray Til Now

**Hello! Wasn't _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ well... Fantastic?! Newt is just so wonderful and Jacob is just so funny and the Niffler is just so Niffler-ery. I think little Sherlock could have used a Newt in his childhood. I'm actually not feeling too bad about this chapter at the moment, not a lot of my usual imagery but there's a lot going on. Review responses are down the bottom. **

**WARNING for some violence and some...other horrid things. YE BE WARNED!**

* * *

I can hear my brother screaming...

I think it's stopped but then I hear his shrill voice again, a despaired cry, begging someone to hear. It's agonising. It twists my insides; makes me want to pull my hair out. I can't concentrate. I can't think...I don't want to think.

...

I can hear my brother crying...

I know he's there sitting in the dark - Probably huddled on the carpet beside his bedroom door, nervously watching for the shadow of footsteps beneath the illuminated strip of light spilling in from the hallway. I can tell he's scared...I'm scared.

...

I can hear him. He's trying to stop himself from calling my name, not wanting to drag me in on this mess, but I hear it faintly on his lips. God, I wish I were dead. I feel so useless; too much of a coward to control what's going on. He screams again and I press my hands to my ears. It's too much - too horrible to listen to anymore. I need it to stop.

...

I need it to stop. I can feel myself drifting further and further away from consciousness. Everything is slowed down. I hear sounds but my brain doesn't notice what they are until they are gone. Even my movements feel slower. It's like being underwater. I'm not sure I'm even breathing. It's all just so hazy. Any moment now I think the world's going to come to a...

...

Stop. I think it's stopped... I slowly unfold myself, placing my palms flat on the floor. It's gone silent. I get anxiously to my feet, listening for a moment more before carefully turning the door handle. I ease the door open looking out into the hallway.

The light assaults my head. I flinch momentarily, blinking back the dizzy pain. There's no one out here. Wary of foot and fragile of mind, I silently begin to traverse the hallway towards the main flight of stairs. I do not take heed of the paintings on the wall now as I did as a child, for they no longer matter. Only one thing matters now.

I come to a stop outside my brother's bedroom door and press an ear to the wood. I jump back in shock, however, when the door suddenly opens. There in the doorway; my imposing father. He looks down at me, unimpressed. I straighten myself, realising I'm stooped from holding my head to the door. I feel as if I should give some explanation for being here but remind myself that both he and I already know.

The faintly pinstriped suit he's wearing would give no indication of having been in altercation. In fact, the only aspect of his appearance that would give any allusion to what had taken place in the last few minutes was the wisps of black, iridescent hair fraying from his scalp that he'd yet to smooth back into place.

I know he's looking right at me. I try not to appear uncomforted by this but know I'm failing miserably. I peer into Sherlock's darkened bedroom to avoid making eye contact with him but he leans into my line of sight. Clearing my throat, I try and vocalise that I wish to get past him but only find myself looking down at my Oxford shoed feet. I realise I'm uncharacteristically biting my bottom lip. I've been doing it an awful lot recently. Every time I get nervous - even around my college masters.

After a moment more, he leaves towards the stairs; but not before brushing roughly past my shoulder. I watch him leave with a swagger that brings acid to my throat and a rage to my chest. I suddenly feel spurred to lung for his throat but refrain knowing there are far more important matters at hand. Mustering all the courage that I could find, I step into my brother's room.

It was like walking into a room you believe is haunted. You heart within seconds is thundering in your chest. Breathing is suddenly forgotten. The anticipated fear is always plethoric to what you find. In Sherlock's case, however, I never can be certain.

I don't believe in ghosts; but I'm afraid of them...

There had evidently been a struggle in the room. Stacks of Sherlock's books had been knocked over and a glass tumbler swiped from the desk – shattered - water still dripping down the wall. I remember how sick I felt seeing that the sheets were yanked from the end of the bed. Knotted, they cascaded to the floor like a stout, white waterfall. I edged further into the shadow covered room, frightened of what I was about to witness, but I drew a breath and held my nerve.

As I rounded the end of the bed, I found my brother. He lay on his side with his back to me. His arms were latched around his middle protectively. He was staring passively at the wall, his face completely expressionless. For a moment I thought he was dead. I crouched down beside him. "Sherlock...?"

I saw how he flinched at his name. It instantly sent a wave of aching sympathy to my heart. I wanted to just pick him up, pull him into my arms and tell him that it's was going to be okay. But I can't lie and I know better than to touch him when he's this zoned out. Instead I just reassure him verbally. Reassure him that his father was gone and that I was going to help him. He didn't give any response to this but I assumed he'd heard me. I knew he needed some space; to distance himself from what had just happened and file it away in his so called "mind palace".

I got up, knees clicking. Looking across the room, a disappointed dread pinged in my head like a lightbulb. The light is dull though – element burnt out from having been lit so many times and for so long. _My brother is his own worst enemy._

I crossed to his bed side table, opening the draw. There, poking out from beneath a copy of Mary Shelley's _Frankenstein,_ the glint of the blade I had expected. I removed it from the draw, placing it in my trouser pocket. Closing it, I look disconsolately at my little brother.

 _O, dearest, dearest, one…If you were thinking about it again why didn't you tell me?_

With a heavy heart, I walk across to my brother again. Crouching down beside him, I can see his expression is still very vacant. I reach for a sticky note and a pen from the desk behind me and quickly scribble down a note. Placing the lid back on the pen, and the pen on the desk, I stick the note to the wall in my brother's eye-line. Hopefully he'll see it when he surfaces back into the real world.

I pull the nearest blanket from under the bed towards me and drape it over Sherlock's fragile shoulders. He draws a small, sharp, inward breath in startlement but is quick to relax again. A soft, sad smile plays on my lips for a second. It takes everything I have not to rest a pale hand within his tangled curls. With a sigh, I straighten up again, pulling down the edges of my moss green waist coat. My face is beginning to itch as previously fallen tears begin to dry on the surface of my cheeks. The side of my thumb swipes them away. My upset is little to be measured against Sherlock's.

Resigned that there is little more to be done, I turn to leave the room. I pull the door closed with the tips of my fingers but am surprised as it jams. Momentarily confused, I look down at the floor.

The thing I see wedged in the door frame strikes a horror within me I would never forget.

I feel so violently sick that my head spins. With quivering fingers, I reach down for the object – the bottle of lubricant. I nearly scream after my brother. I'm so terrified, my hand comes to my mouth. I never knew Atheists could pray til now. My mind is racing; heart pounding in my ears. I sink back against the hallway wall. I'm willing myself to stay calm but the breath shudders in and out of me like a stationary bus engine. I need Sherrinford. I need him now more than ever.

All my thoughts detract as I hear my father chortle with my mother from the floor below. A fury with the force of a hurricane rips through me. I'm barely aware of what I'm doing as my feet thunder down the marble stairs at a hundred miles an hour. I lunge furiously through the royally expansive entrance hall and throw the door to my parents' parlour open. Spying my father, I immediately lob the sticky bottle of lubricant at his head. "Fuck you!"

My father ducks out of the way, my mother sitting bolt upright with a gasp. "Mycroft!"

She, however, is none of my concern right now so I do not even look at her. I instead continue to only glare my father down, rage spitting in my chest. "How dare you do that to him! He's a child! How dare you!"

He looks back at me tactfully. "What are you getting upset about now, Mycroft?"

His bored tone has me murderous. _"Don't you ever fucking touch him again! I swear to God, don't you ever, ever dare!"_

My father rolls his eyes at me. My voice screams hoarsely out of my throat without thought. "Do whatever you want but do it to me! At least I'm an adult! At least I can understand what ugly things are being done to me and can take it – play to your sick whim as if I want it - but don't you _ever_ place your vile hands on him again!" I'm all but really to hit him but I am the one to receive a sharp back hand to the face. I fall to the floor, the wind knock from my lungs. I know my father is shouting at me but I can't hear him; I'm too angry. I can taste copper in my mouth where his ring has split my lip. Breathing deep, I push myself up from the Persian rug, rounding sharply on him with laser like efficiency. "You think that's going to shut me up?!" I bite. "You'll have to do a darn sight more than that before I let you near him again! You disgust me!"

I brace myself for another blow but it doesn't come. I open my eyes to see my father crossing the room to his decanter. He picks up the crystal, pouring a copious amount of the contained amber liquid into a refractive glass. He downs the content before slamming the glass to the varnished table top. He draws a couple of deep breaths before looking with his depravities out of the diamond-pained window before him. "Get out." He mutters.

There is a moment of peace when all that can be heard is the monotonous, baritone tick of the Grand-Father clock in the corner of the room. My father's head snaps towards me, eyes piercing. "I thought I told you to get out?"

I feel myself flinch, but hold my nerve. "No. You can't threaten Sherlock with that kind of violence and expect me not to say something."

"A threat's only a threat if you don't carry it out."

I pause, trying to catch my breath as I ponder over this cryptic statement. "What did you do to him…? I breathe fearfully.

My father is now circling me like a serpent, eyes never leaving me. He gets closer and closer. Close enough that I can smell the brandy on his breath but still does not answer me.

" _What did you do?!"_ I cry, trying to force back a torrent of overthrowing emotions.

He passes my ear. "Nothing," He whispers. He pulls away and strolls back towards his desk. "Chance would be a fine thing." He muses musically.

I bow my head in an attempt not to be sick.

In my mind, I'm standing in front of my brother, grasping his shoulders, imploring after him. _'Sherlock, don't you let him, don't you ever, ever let him.'_

I want to just grab my father's throat, strangle the life from him. I can visualise what it would look like, his eyes bulging, face bright red, mouth contorted in a silent scream. But I can't do it.

I stride across to my mother who is sat still looking slightly perturbed on the

Chaise sofa. "Do you know what he's just tried to do to your youngest son?" I insist. I feel an unspeakable hopelessness wash over me as she just stares back at me. "That monster has just tried to sexually assault your son and would have succeeded had he not put up such a fight!"

She still doesn't react to me. I'm confused as she looks past my shoulder towards the door. An expression akin to arrogance finds a place in her forgotten youth features. "What can I say; the little brat deserves it." I swivel on my heels to see who she's addressing to find, to my horror, it was Sherlock. I step towards him with an outstretched hand but he just looks back at it emptily.

"Sherlock… Sherlock don't listen to her. Go back upstairs."

My little brother blinks back at me quizzically. "But I do deserve it…" He whispers.

That was the most pivotal moment in my life. I had never been more resentful and more bitter. I grasped the nearest object to my hand and threw it viciously at my smirking father. Turns out it was my mother's wine glass. He catches it, glowering at me. He casts it to the ground and it shatters with a high pitch crack. It's only then I realised what I had done. I quickly back away as my father traverses the room in no more than three steps. I curse myself as I realise I've backed myself into a corner. I wrap my arms around my head, feeling an unrelenting sense of panic clatter through me. I'm breathing all too fast but I can't stop myself. Sherlock cries out. I look up instinctively only to find a fist descending towards my face.

...

I tried. I really did. But I could not stop the scream scrambling out of my throat as I saw my father's heavy fist raise towards my brother. I leap forward to stop it but I'm too slow as my father grasps Mycroft's collar and punches him firmly in the temple. I gasp, hands coming to my mouth as I fall to my knees. I can see my brother through the gap in my father's legs. My breath catches in my throat to see his unconscious form slumped in the corner. A new found fear flutters deep within me and makes me feel ill. Eyes closed, I can see the bruise already beginning to spread across my sibling's face. Before I know what I'm doing, I'm reaching out on all fours towards him. "My...?"

He doesn't react. My father turns around looking down on me like the God Thor. I get to my feet, slowly moving away from him.

I start as I collide with my mother. She grasps both of my wrists together, pulling me in close. "Sherlock, you have to stop this."

I try to tug away from her but she only grasps me tighter.

"Sherlock, that's enough. This is in your head. You're very ill and you need help."

I shake my head, yanking my arms away. "No! You're lying!"

My dad is behind me. He places a hand on my shoulder. "Son, just take some deep breaths."

I flinch on the verge of tears. "No, no leave me alone."

My mother's hand is now on my other shoulder. I feel trapped. She's talking but I can't hear her. My brain is seizing up with panic.

"Sherlock, honey, you need to calm down."

I'm getting pulled across the room. I dig my heels but it doesn't work. I'm pushed onto the sofa, my limbs being held in place. "Get off me." I cry. There's a gentle hand stroking my hair. I dislike the touch. I don't like anyone touching me except John _...John?_

I'm suddenly pulled back to the present as a hand brushes the curls from my face. "Shhh now, it's okay. It's okay. Can you tell me where you are, Sherlock?"

This voice doesn't sound like my mother's or my father's; a different woman. - A police women? Did Mycroft wake up? Did Sherrinford come back?

"Sherlock...? Come on, try and focus on my voice."

This voice was different again - A man this time, but it's not my father's and not my brother's. I'm crying hysterically because I don't know what's going on. Only that I feel like I'm being pinned to the floor. I'm so scared. I feel like there are hands all over me. I just want it to stop. I feel a hand on either side of my face. I involuntarily flinch fearing they're my father's. In all this chaos it occurs to me that the sounds that I'm hearing don't make sense to where I am. Cars and buses… Their engines... I can hear a torrent of water and wind in bare tree branches. I can hear leaves skittering and rustling across concrete. Above it all, close to my ear, I can hear a soothing voice. I suddenly realise that everything that's happened tonight can't be any more than a bad dream because in that dream I have John.

…

I open my eyes to find my beloved doctor opposite me, face contorted in an extreme look of worry. His small arms are quick to reach up around my shoulders and stuff my head in the arch of his neck, arms coming up around his torso. "John, I'm so sorry." I sob. "I've been a fool. I should have trusted you and I didn't and I'm so so sorry."

"It's okay." He says rubbing my back soothingly. "It's alright now."

John holds me out at arm's length. "Sherlock, I've been so worried about you." He says looking tenderly up at me. "You've been missing for hours. Even your brother called sounding mildly anxious."

"I don't understand." I say dumbly.

"Sherlock, it's gone two o'clock in the morning. You left the flat to drop your brother home eight hours ago."

I'm frightened by this knowledge. I turn around to see the faces of Big Ben glowing outwardly over the city in the near distance. John was telling the truth. It's just approaching a quarter past two. I turn back to see Molly looking at me nervously. She tries to smile reassuringly at me but it comes out all skewwhiff. I can feel myself recoiling but my attention is caught as John grabs hold of my hand. "Sherlock, look at me."

I do.

"What's been going on?"

I look him in the face. I know my eyes are so fearful because he holds my hand even tighter. He smiles at me. I look down at my feet not wanted to see the smile disappear.

* * *

 ** _Yep. I cliff-hangered you. But for those of you who have been following this for a while, yes, what you think is about to happen, is about to happen. Just hang in there. The ideas, the words are in all my head, I just need to commit them to paper. In the mean time...Review? ;)_**

 **REVIEW RESPONSES!**

 **paula. -** Bit of Sherlock POV. I hope you liked it. I think I already got to you veer DM but just in case... Mycroft is evidently afraid of his dad as shown in this chapter but there is also a courage deep down in him somewhere. And, believe me, I already know Siger's fate. He won't get away with this.

 **Rockelgriffiths14** \- Blimey! Breath! Hopefully you're relatively unscathed from this one!

 **YouKnowWhoIAm - '** Genuinely well written'... Well I can't ask for a better compliment than that! Thank you, O Faithful One.

 **0ayumi0 -** Dans des temps très convenable, John comprendrez tous. Je l'aime quand Sherlock et Mycroft soutiennent mutuellement trop.

 **jesicajam -** This is possibly the kindest review I've ever had. Thank you so so much. I hope this chapter lived up to expectations!


	23. John?

**Not sure about this one. I'm happy with the pace and the overall depiction of setting but I'm not so sure about the narrative. I think I've kind of ruined and wasted the build-up that I have. Let me know what you think. I had more reviews than ever last chapter. Thank you guys so much for that. Let's see if we can round the total up to 100 review this week, aye? ;)**

 **Sorry it took a bit longer than usual. I had a letter saying I had an audition for RADA in London in 10 days time and had to cram three Shakespearean speeches into my head. But that's over for now. Just applying to film school now. Just out of curiosity, are any of you going to the BAFTA Celebration of Sherlock tomorrow? I have an invite but I'm not sure I'm going to be able to get to London for all the train strikes :'(**

 **No warnings for this one really so go ahead.**

* * *

Sherlock looks down at his feet. The smile fades from my face. I realise now that he's never going to tell me. I un-thread my fingers from his, trying to pull away but his hand suddenly jumps for mine, not wanting to be let go. I'm about to say his name in protest but it dies on my lips as I find his fingertips pattering on my palm. I'm confused by this for a moment but am quick to realise that he's doing a pattern over and over again. .- - ... -. ..-..

It doesn't take me long to recognise it as Morse. I quickly decipher the rhythm to find that Sherlock is tapping out my own name, followed with a question mark. I look up at him but his gaze is still fixed upon the stone, chewing gummed pavement. I squeeze his hand to make him stop. I try and gauge his reaction but he gives none. _Yes? -_ I tap, after a moment.

Sherlock is now biting his lip, blinking rapidly. He takes a deep breath in. This immediately makes me anxious.

 _What is he so worried about telling me? What's so bad to warrant this sort of distress?_

I squeeze his hand tightly. He begins to tap against my wrist gently. He taps the letter M, -, but then stops. I wait but no more letters come.

"M?" I question lightly.

He looks up at me, his eyes fearful. He then looks over my shoulder to Molly. He reaches out to her with his spare hand. She steps forward, taking it. Sherlock's eyes meet mine. I try the best I can to communicate wordlessly that I am supporting him. He nods, receiving the unspoken message.

I can feel spots begin to cascade down sporadically from the pitch black sky above us. I feel the drips splatter on the top of my head, on my shoulders, sliding down the side of face. I can see out of the corner of my eye that Molly has noticed the rain too. Sherlock, however, seems completely oblivious to the subject, too caught up in his own thoughts. I concentrate as his fingertips once again begin to percuss against my skin. – M…y…

"My?" I say aloud, confused. "Mycroft?"

Sherlock doesn't respond to me but instead keeps on tapping. I focus, voicing each letter as I decipher. "F… A…Father…A…B…U….."

I suddenly stopped speaking as the words unfolded to me. My heart skips a beat in my chest. I pull away from Sherlock, stepping backwards. Sherlock drops his head, hands coming up to his ears. I feel Molly grab my arm, shaking it gently. " _John?_ John what did he say?"

I shake my head, closing my eyes. I feel sick. Molly shakes my arm again.

"John, what did Sherlock say?"

Her voice feels like it's calling from a long distance. I try to speak but the words get – get lodged in my throat. Hideous images are filling my head, all of Sherlock's quirks and behaviors suddenly seem accountable – make sense.

"My father abused me as a child …He's still after me… Please help me, John. Please, please, help me." The words pass between my lips in no more than a hoarse whisper. I still can't open my eyes. I'm too frightened. I'm not even sure why. I think I frightened that a person can go through that and still be alive… but then I think how he almost wasn't. I can feel my throat going tight as if I'm going to cry.

There was a girl back when I was in Secondary School. She was evidently being abused by her father. She tried to hide it, but every few days she'd come into school with a bruise on her wrist or a cut to her face. Everyone knew what was happening but just overlooked it, even teachers pretended that they didn't notice the new scratch on her neck or the perpetual shake in her hands as people neared her. It scares me to think Sherlock was at all like this.

I slowly lift my gaze to him. He's still looking down at the pavement between his planted feet, biting his lip as he has been all too frequently these passing months. My right hand reaches up to his face, fingertips gently lifting his chin. It takes a minute but his eyes eventually draw up to meet mine. There's such a shame in them - an anxiousness beyond measure. It makes me feel angry that anyone could reduce him to that sort of level, lead him to believe he was truly nothing, when, in truth, he was everything.

I reach up to Sherlock's hands, trying to take on of them in mine but he pulls away from me.

"Excuse me." He whispers, turning away from me hurriedly.

" _Sherlock-"_ I start after him but Molly grabs my arm.

"John... Just… give him a minute."

I turn to look at her. Her face is pale, eyes red and glassy. The weight of the past few minutes suddenly catches up with me - _Reality_. My hands come up to my mouth, tears beginning to slope down my cheeks. _"Molly…"_

She embraces me.

Normally hugs between us are a bit awkward but this hug was just an outpouring of emotion. She squeezed me so tight it hurts. But that hurt was a far better pain than the one I had in my chest. I didn't want to let go, fearing I'd disintegrate into imperfect shards of glass to the floor.

Molly held me out at arm's length. Her make-up was streaked down her face. She looked up at me with wide, compassionate eyes. "I'll ring Greg and tell him that we've found him."

I nod firmly. She gives me a light smile. "You two are gonna make it through together. Go to him. He needs you."

I all but run in the direction Sherlock left in. It takes a few minutes of walking anxiously along the bank but eventually I lay eyes upon his form. He's sitting on a metallic backless bench; hand's resting gently on his knees. The bench is situated between two barren trees. This is almost oxymoronic. The image of dead, emptiness beside Sherlock's crammed, depraved head. The depravity does not belong to him though. It's been thrust upon him unwittingly and he has carried it for a very long time. I look behind me to see the cubic theatre we had visited together back in the summer. Up on the balcony where we stood before everything went wrong. I haven't seen my Sherlock since that day… Maybe _my_ Sherlock doesn't exist… I don't know what to think anymore.

I approach him with the caution I'd approach a stranger – a wounded animal, just waiting for it to snarl. "Sherlock…?"

…

I hear John's voice a few feet away testing my name. I would try to look but I don't think I can move…He calls my name again. It's closer to my ear this time. My head tilts slightly towards the sound. Arms are suddenly around my shoulders. I feel tense for a moment but I soon sink into the hold.

"Sherlock Scott Holmes, you are twice the man I thought you were."

I open my eyes to see my doctor crouched in front of me, looking lovingly up at me. He pulls his hand into his sleeve a raises it to my face, swiping away the drying tears from my pale skin. "God, look at you, you complete mess."

His jokey tone has a smile breaking on my lips, a small snuff of laughter passing through them. "I didn't think you'd come back." I say feebly down to him.

He looked puzzled back at me. "Why wouldn't I come back?" He asks mildly.

I frown looking at the now scuffed tips of my shoes. "Because…because I'm a freak."

I suddenly find John taking hold of my hand. He pulls me up and leads me to the water's edge. "What do you see, Sherlock?" he says simply.

We both look down at our reflections looking back at us, distorted in the wavering, chilling breeze.

"I see me and you." I whisper, voice barely audible.

John shakes his head. "No, Sherlock... I see us."

I blink. "I-don't understand."

"This, Sherlock," He raises our clasped hands between us; our reflections conjoined. "This means the two of us, together, working as a team."

"Together?" I question.

John turns to look at me, face deadly serious. "Sherlock, do you honestly believe that if you asked me for help, and over something as important as this, that I'd just walk away from you?"

"Everybody else did."

"Did Greg?"

I'm not sure whether to be surprised or hurt. This conflict must have been reflected in my features as John broke in the conversation again.

"He hasn't told me anything, Sherlock. But the rifeness of his concern for you demonstrates to me clearly enough that you and he have a history together. God knows he's been more scared than _I_ have."

I look out over the water. The lights of the government and embassy buildings across the paralleling bank glitter in the rippling water. I can tell by the direction of the water that the tide's going out. I suddenly realise it's raining. The bite in the air sends me back to all those times Mycroft fetched me shivering in from the grounds of the house. All of those times Lestrade pulled me squandered from the streets into the Yard or his flat.

 _Why have I let myself fall this far?_

"Sherlock?"

John's clicking his fingers near me. It's only then I realise that I've lost touch with where I was. He's looking at me nervously. "Hey, you okay?"

I shake the cloudiness from my head. "Fine… fine." I reassure. He continues to gaze at me, seemingly unconvinced. "You keep doing this. It's like zoning out."

I look away from him dismayed. "Sorry. I-"

"It's okay! You don't need to apologize, I was just…do you even know that you're doing it?"

I hesitate, biting my lip. "Not normally until I'm pulled out of it."

"Okay…That's okay. It's just good that I know that."

I give a frail smile. "I-I'm not mad."

A stricken concern is suddenly etched over my doctor's face. "Of course you're not! Christ, Sherlock I didn't…"

"It's just that some people-"

His fingertips pick up my chin. "Listen to me. You are not mad, Sherlock."

This time the smile I give him is more genuine. He pulls me into a hug, squeezing me tightly. It hurts but I don't tell him. I'm just happy to have him.

"You're the best thing that's ever happened to me." His words breathe gently into my ear. It feels unpleasant but I can bare it because those words have never been more important.

"You're the best thing to ever happen to me too." I hum softly.

John snuffs a laugh into my shoulder. I'm not sure what this means. Maybe he's just happy. That's a good thing, isn't it?

The doctor pulls away, smiling up at me. "I'm just going to go and get Molly and then we can go and find Lestrade."

I feel hesitant at this, already feeling like I've said an inexplicable amount but I nod in agreement, remembering the DI's words on truth.

 _Truth…._ God I hate that word…

I watch John stride purposefully in the direction that he previously came from. The spring in his step has me both anxious and confused. Is he feeling joyful because we were being kind? Or is it that he feels like he's connected to me? He hasn't. I don't think he has any idea the messy hell he's just walked into. I can't help but feel satisfied though as I look at John's funny little walk. The love I feel for him in that moment overwhelms me; a pleasant heat spreading through my chest. Everything else around me seemed forgotten to see his fingers tapping fondly against his right trouser leg. Sometimes I forget that he too is a musician... He's all the more beautiful for it.

So lost am I in my besotted consciousness, is perhaps why I failed to hear the scuff of a shoed toe directly behind me.

…

John walks towards me with a spring in his step. There's a confidence exuded on his features, though is partly shrouded by his wet fringe sticking flat to his forehead.

"How is he?" I ask quietly.

"I think he's okay." John said firmly. "I'm a bit concerned about how frequently he's losing touch with reality but I think he's okay."

I was sceptical to hear this. We'd just spent hours looking for Sherlock in the middle of the freezing cold night to find him jittery, bundled on the icy ground, tangled in some hideous flashback.

"John, don't you rather think he's putting on a brave face?"

He shakes his head at me. "No, I don't think so." He says. "I can usually tell if there's something wrong."

The next statement is uncharacteristic of me but I couldn't stop the words. They were already half-way out of my mouth. "Can you though?"

He squints at me. "What's that supposed to mean?" he says defensively.

I open my mouth to reply but am silenced as a sharp scream tares down the bank towards us. John's head whips round. The blood drains from his face so fast he could faint. _"…Sherlock."_

…

There's a hand clamped down, hard, over my mouth. I go to scream but I can't draw breath. This immediately sends my mind into a panic. An arm swiftly comes across my shoulders from behind. It's restrictive. I can't move. I'm getting pulled backwards. My heels drag across the floor. I kick out trying to loose the grip pressing down on my airways, but the act is futile.

I twist with a staggering force as I'm pulled into a dark, narrow aperture. I gasp, lungs filling with relieving oxygen as I tumble away from my captor's clutches. I quickly find myself being yanked backwards though, tugged by the collar of my coat. I'm slammed harshly into one of the closely paralleled brick walls, my back connecting with the stone work with a cavernous, hollow _thud_. I am finally faced with my attacker. My eyes draw up to meet his face.

"Don't scream."

…

Molly's feet hammer hard after John, tan Oxford style shoes almost catching on the back of the Doctor's own Brogues. Breath heaves in and out of the two like a confronting, protective animal, condensing in the ice crystal air. Their reflections only caught in momentary flashes as they sprint with splashing, tramping feet through the quick accumulating, concrete grey puddles. The doctor skids to a halt before the bench he's last seen his detective at moments ago. The light-less theatre once a comforting back drop now seemed to loom over the pair like a dark, imposing figure.

John on his heals twisted 360 degrees in seconds, panicked grey eyes scanning the bleak, bare city-scape. "Sherlock!" He bellowed breathlessly.

"Sherlock?!– Where did he go?" Molly panted turning to look at the doctor.

John doubled, hands resting exhaustively on his knees. "I don't know." He breathed. "He was right here." The doctor straightened up calling the detective's name again. Hearing no sign of response he dragged his hands frustrated down his face. "This is no good. We need to split up."

" _John_ -"

" _Molly, I can't lose him now!"_

…

"Don't scream."

Sherlock shrieks, head colliding heavily with the concrete directly behind him as he starts away from me. He slumps to the alley floor, blinking heavily as light-headed-ness washes over him. I lean back against the other wall hands in my grey suit trouser pockets. I place a foot on the brick, looking down at my brother.

"For God sake, Sherlock, I thought I told you not to scream."

* * *

 ** _So, what's going on guys? Can you deduce it? Ahh! I'm just so excited about this and about series 4! My god, I cannot contain myself! What did you think? There it is. Sherlock finally told John. I think it's sort of sucked actually. I build up like a pinnacle moment and then let it fall flat... :/ Hmm... Anyway, let me know what you be thinking._**

 ** _\- REVIEW RESPONSES -_**

 **0ayumi0** \- Well, thank you :) I love your reviews ;) Merci d'etre tel un fidele lecteur.

 **paula.** **-** "So well written." Well I can hardly ask for a better response than that. Thank you so much. I'm glad you liked the POVs. Hope this chapter's one's are happiness will come though I'm sure. - always under the most unlikely of circumstances...

 **fragileimaginings -** Such a wonderful and kind review. Edge of your seat. That's what I like to hear. Thank you for taking the time to give me some feedback. I love your username and profile pic btw ;)

 **BravePrincess1** **-** "You are truly a great writer and your plot is one of the best things in the world." Literally, you have no idea how much this sentence has helped me the past couple weeks. That's such an unbelievably wonderful thing to say. Thank you so, so much. I hope this chapter wasn't quite so upsetting. Maybe upsetting in a good way? - Thank you again for always so faithfully reviewing.

 **Forestgreengirl -** Probably not as quick as you would have liked it but I hope this chapter was worth the wait for you. Thank you for reviewing! :)

 **Kiskamilla -** Your English was perfect! Your review was honestly one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me. I'm very grateful. Thank you so, so much. I hope I didn't let you down with this chapter.

 **So-Many-Ships-It's-An-Armada -** Thanking you muchly! Sorry it took so long to update! I hate leaving you like that! I hope it was worth the wait. Thank you again for reviewing as you do! :)


	24. We Are Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On

_**Hello All. Merry Christmas and what not. I hope you're all well. Here's the next chapter of my story. I hope this one does so explaining for you all. I think I'll be drawing to a close in the next few chapters. I have three key events I want to incorporate before the end. It's going to be dark, terrifying and exposing. Hopefully you guys will find it all worth while. Thank you for sticking with me. Best Wishes, as always.**_

* * *

" _Hold his head. Don't let him move. We need him quiet."_

Sherlock lay on his back, inky blue coat swathed around him – the damp, gritty, tacky pavement beneath- unflinching as sporadic, weighted rain drops slithered out from the lofty, black sky above, inching into the rooftop crevices, sliding down into the narrow alley way walls, clicking in descent towards their splattering death. His icy, pale, skeletal fingers; quivering; stretched up over his face, heels of his palms pressed into his tightly closed eyes.

" _Delirium... I'd definitely go with psychosis over schizophrenia."_

" _-please_." His breath shook shallowly out of him. "Please, I'm not mad. I-I-I'm not."

" _What was the memo for admission?"_

" _Um, lets see… Ah, yes. William. Age fourteen. Loss of control. Delusions of abuse from his father."_

"You're not real - you're, you're… _"_

" _What plan of action would you suggest - Straight in with the ECT?"_

" _No. We'll try restraint first –chemical. Sedate him."_

"Sherlock, get a grip!"

"Please! You have to believe me! Please! You can't!"

Sherrinford bent down, pulling Sherlock's hands away from his contorted face, his own spindly fingers clutching his wrists together. "Sherlock! Sherlock, snap out of it! You're head's getting muddled. Listen to me."

The older brother's words went unheard by the distressed detective. Sherrinford sat down on the damp, mossy pavement. Pulling Sherlock towards him, he propped him against the wall he'd hit his head on only moments ago. Sherlock's breaths heaved in and out of him like a cyclist going uphill- deep and all too rapidly. Sherrinford shuffled forward placing a hand on either side of his brother's face. "Hey-Locky…? Sherlock, look at me." Sherrinford drew a deep breath. " _'And now our revels ended. These our actors,_

 _As I foretold you, were all spirits, and_

 _Are melted into air, into thin air:'"_

Sherrinford's thumb slowly cursered over his brother's paled jaw-line.

"' _And like the baseless fabric of this vision,_

 _The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,_

 _The solemn temples, the great globe itself,'"_

Sherlock's deep baritone voice suddenly sounded, tentatively, conjoining in verse.

"' _Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,_

 _And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,_

 _Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff_

 _As dreams are made on; and our little life_

 _Is rounded with sleep.'"_

Sherlock exhaled a steady breath, his icy grey eyes slowly opened to meet with his brother's aqua blue ones. Sherrinford gave a light smile. "Good evening."

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock breathed.

"Merry Christmas?"

"It's November."

"Happy Bonfire Night?"

"I'm really hating on you right now."

Sherrinford's face broke into a cheeky grin. "No, you're not."

Sherrinford gets to his feet. "Come on you, stop hyperventilating and get up."

The detective shook his head in disbelief. "We buried you. You're dead."

"I'm really not." Sherrinford picked up his brother's nearest hand setting it on his face. "You didn't bury me; you buried someone who looks _like_ me."

"But how did you-"

"Same as you. The power of suggestion is an incredible thing."

Sherrinford reaches down for his brother's hand pulling him to his feet. Sherlock brushes himself down, thanking him before planting a fist firmly into his shoulder. "You complete arse, Sherrinford James Holmes!"

Sherrinford draws back, clutching his arm. "Ow! What was that for?!"

"That was for making me give a speech in front of people! And that," Sherlock hits him again. "Is for all the times in the past six months I've got soaked sitting by your –turns out not to be your- grave!"

"Ow! Jeez, I said I was sorry!" The elder brother rubs his shoulder with the pity of a wounded animal. "Where'd you learn to punch like that?"

"Serbia. But you'd probably already know that!"

Sherrinford braced himself for another assault but was surprised to find Sherlock's arms thrown around his neck, face buried into the breast of his cloud-grey, military-style jacket. "Don't you ever do that again."

Sherrinford laughed drawing his arms round his brother's torso. "I missed you too."

"I was talking to myself." Sherlock muttered.

Sherrinford rolled his eyes fondly, drawing away. "Listen, Sherlock. I need your help."

…

"Greg we think Sherlock's been snatched."

Greg sat bold up right in his office chair. "What?"

John strode up to the detective's desk, planting his hands firmly on the surface. "Sherlock he told me – told me what happened to him as a child and that it's still happening and that he needs my help and I went to get Molly and we heard him scream and now he's gone and-"

"Jesus, John, slow down."

"Sherlock's missing!"

"Molly said you found him."

"We did find him." She protests.

"But we heard him scream and now he's gone."

"Where was this?"

"South Bank."

"Right."

The DI gets to his feet shouldering past Molly and John out into the expansive office beyond. "Donovan, Smith, Strevens?"

The three investigators looked up from the examination table they were stood around. "Sargent?"

"Sherlock's vanished again. Possible abduction. Last seen South Bank. Find him." He turns to another two shirt and tie officers. "Fisher, Brooke; I want you to continue with the McCoy case until I say."

Greg ignores Smith's eye roll as he strides back into his dimly lit office. "Molly, if you can go and tell Sargent Donovan what Sherlock was wearing - where exactly you last saw him - that would be great."

"Shouldn't John be the one doing that?" said the pathologist with a referencing index finger. "It's just he was the last one-"

"Molly, just, please, I need to talk to John."

Molly glanced nervously at the doctor but reluctantly moved, the end of her pink and black thick stripe scarf trailing across the Brillo-like carpet behind her as she scuffled out. Greg all but slammed the door as she left causing Donovan and Strevens to look up apprehensively from their evidence table.

Lestrade rested his head heavily against the pine-wood door. "Sit down."

John's eyes glanced from side to side in confusion. "…What?"

Greg twisted to face the doctor with the speed of a bullet. _"SIT DOWN!"_

…

Sherlock looked up at his brother. "My help…?"

"There is a mole in the British Government, Sherlock. Closer to home than you could have ever imagined.

…

John immediately fell into the nearest chair, hands clasped together, looking up at the detective.

"Why did you leave him alone?" Greg scowled.

"I was just getting Molly. We were all going to come to you."

"That's not what I was asking – Why did you leave him by himself in the first place?!"

"He was taking his brother home and never came back."

"That's what happened! I asked why you left him."

…

Sherlock blinked with a cautious expression. "Closer to home…? Are you telling me that Mycroft is a double agent or that you're in fact working for a secret organisation because, either way, I don't understand what's going on?"

"I'm saying, Sherlock, our father has been terrorising more than us."

…

"I'm sorry but he was just taking his brother home. I didn't think-"

" _-That's just it! You didn't think!_ Do I need to remind you that he nearly died from a suicide attempt less than a week ago? - For someone I had to scrape sobbing off of my living room floor out of fear of losing his best friend, you're being careless."

" _Careless?!"_ John spat.

"Yes, careless! You've no idea the fragility of his mind! Not even he understands! You cannot let him out of your sight, John. Not for a second."

"Why are you being so obsessive?!"

" _Because it's necessary_!" The detective roared. "Because he's a beautiful, beautiful, talented person and he needs to be on this planet – even if he disagrees!

…

There was a scuffle of feet from the end of the alley. Sherrinford's hand flew to his brother's mouth. He pressed them both to the wall holding his breath. He watched as the shadow of legs past the entrance into the street. Examining them closely, he slowly relaxed, craning his neck to watch two men appear and then vanish again in the solid beam of a stead-fast streetlamp.

"Sherrinford, what's-"

Sherringford shushes Sherlock into silence. The detective irritably batters the hand away from his lips. _"What's going on?"_ He says again, hissing.

Sherrinford rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, do you honestly think all those furtive little meeting of father's were all above board?"

"Well up until five minutes ago I thought my brother was dead so I'm a bit stuck for what to think right now."

"You're still hung up on that?"

"Just a bit, yeah!" Sherlock spluttered.

"Oh for goodness sake, come on!" Sherrinford grasped Sherlock's wrist pulling him towards the end of the alley but the detective digs his scuffed heels in.

"Wait, wait, wait- aren't you going to explain?"

…

John looks up at Greg passively, analyzing his expression. "…What are you so afraid of?"

The DI looks back for a moment, hesitant. "…What?"

John stands up. "You're right. He's important and I wasn't cautious enough. Molly said it. I don't know him. But I know you well enough to know that you only get this angry if a criminal keeps evading you grasp or you're scared…Why are you scared?"

"Why aren't you…?"

John felt his heart jump into his mouth, knowing that question was all too justified. "…I'm terrified, Greg."

…

"There's always one more side to the government that you know about, Sherlock. I know you've deuced it; I work for MI6. The side that even Mycroft knows barely anything about. We've been tracking an all too familiar Mr. Holmes for ages. He's been plotting a deal to have both the Irish and American ambassadors shot – it would spark war-"

Sherlock pulls away from his brother suddenly, seemingly unhearing of the previous statement. "Does Mycroft, know you're alive?"

Sherrinford stops, pausing for a moment. "No, and it needs to say that way."

…

Greg looked John up and down, arms crossed tightly in front of his chest. "You sure don't look terrified."

"You can't appear scared in the army." Replied the doctor matter-of-factly. He looked down at the tips of his tan coloured shoes, right hand clenching in and out of a fist. "Scared means you're a weakness…" He sighs closing his eyes. "I don't know why I let him go on his own. I think it's because I don't believe that he's so bad that he needs constant watch – I don't want to believe he's so bad he needs constant watch. I think I'm frightened to be alone with him because I don't want to see him in that state because I wouldn't know what to do, I wouldn't want to see anyone in that much pain."

His gaze rose to the detective's desk, eyes falling upon a letter headed with a Cambridge University crest – another of many pieces of evidence. The medic stood in silent reflection. _Cambridge. Why did that make him think of Sherlock?_

"Sherlock, gained his graduate chemistry degree at Cambridge." Greg said aloud, obviously noticing the doctor's line of sight. "-After a great deal of struggle."

John's head suddenly jolted towards the detective, his mind finally slotting all the jumbled pieces together. _Struggle…_

"That's how you knew…" He whispered. "Back when we found his brother. You knew how to calm him down. The counting. Telling me that he'll bite through his lip. You've seen it all before."

…

Sherlock blinked uncomprehendingly at his brother. "I don't understand; why do you need my help? Why not go to Mycroft? He's the smart one. He's the one with any sort of power."

"Because, Sherlock, if there's anyone father's not expecting to rise up against him, it's you." Each of Sherrinford's hands rested firmly on the detective's arms, squeezing him tightly. "That's why he's come back. He wants to traumatize you into silence. Don't let him."

"You know what he's been doing….?" Sherlock set a good six foot between his brother and himself, arms wrapped protectively around his middle. "What-why didn't you intervene?!"

"Because I was dead!"

"Playing dead!"

"What about your wife and children?! They're beautiful. How could you-"

"To protect them, Sherlock. Same as you did. Once this is all over, I'll go back to them."

Sherlock looked anxiously at his brother, teeth once again at his bottom lip. "…So father still believes you're dead?"

"Yes. When he found out I was evolved he came to put an end to me. Tried to kill me but he only managed to knock me out. Once he'd set up his little drama, the letter and the ribbon to lure you in, I simply had to replace myself with a slightly smashed up look-a-like." He reached forward taking Sherlock's elbow. "Now, come on. – And don't breathe a word."

…

"...What did he tell you tonight?" the Inspector hummed quietly.

John swallowed thickly. "That his father abused him as a child… And that he's still doing it… And that he desperately needs me to help him. – I want to, Greg, but I don't even know where to start."

"We need to start by finding him." said the DI purposely. He crossed the room. John turned, walking with Greg towards the door. He swiftly opened it striding about into the generic expansion of table top and computers but came jolting to a stop. "…Found him."

There, on the edge of the darkened corridor connecting the Investigations team to the rest of Scotland Yard, was Sherlock; dampened curls plastered to his head, coat an even darker black where saturated with rain. Beneath, his striped cotton pajama bottoms and the grey t-shirt were blotted. He looked lost; morally and physically. He took a step forward into the light. He looked white, like he'd just had a terrible fright. The pair gazed at each other from across the room. Molly, Sally and sandy-haired Strevens all watched breathlessly as both stared but neither saying anything, John resilient, Sherlock, exhausted and glassy eyed. It was silent as the doctor slowly raised an arm, extending a hand, palm upwards in offering towards the detective. "I'd like to help you, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock gave a sob all but running to the doctor. He threw his arms around his neck. "I don't deserve you. " He whispered head buried deep within John's beige jumper.

John's arms came up around the detective, holding him just tight enough to affirm in his mind that he as there, living, breathing. "No, you deserve better."

Sherlock's arms jumped even tighter around his blogger's shoulders. "I don't want better. I want you."

* * *

 _ **Reached the end, did you? That's a good thing. I hope you found a bit of resolution after the confusing up roar of the last chapter. I hope this one wasn't such a disappointment. I'm not so sure but let me know what you think. I'm not sure if I shall continue to post. I doesn't seem to be going awfully well right now. I may just finish it for my own piece of mind.**_

 _ **REVIEW RESPONSES.**_

 **0ayumi0** \- I think you guessed it first. Indeed it was not Mycroft but the other Holmes. You make films? That's really cool. I've just been accepted into the best film school in my country so I'm going to be studying film making for the next three-years come next October :D

 **Paula** \- Sorry I've confused you. I hope this has restored your faith in Mycroft a bit. Mycroft wouldn't do to Sherlock, ever. He is very much on Sherlock's side. Sherlock is going to protected. John, Greg, Molly, they're going to keep Sherlock safe. Thank you for reviewing again :)

 **So-Many-Ships-It's-An-Armada** \- Such a wonderful review! Thank you so much! I've made you wait way too long, sorry about that. I hope this chapter was okay for you. Thank you for reviewing as per usual. You're wonderful! x

 **fragileimaginings -** A twist? What? From me? Never. ;) Thank you do much for your review. It gave me a boost of confidence. Was it worth the wait? I hope it was okay. x


	25. The Scarf and The List

_**Not gonna lie, this chapter's so terrible I could swear. I don't know what's happened to me recently, I just can't seem to do it. I've already got the next chapter down and it's considerably longer. The real reason I just wanted to post something was so I could say;**_

 _ **Happy New Year to you all! New Sherlock is here and I am not ready. I don't want this to be the end... I want to thank you all for being so supportive of both my literary life and my real life. The kindness and understanding you bestowed on me in the summer is probably one of the only reasons I'm still here. I love you guys so much. Here's to the next revolution around the Sun. X**_

* * *

Sherlock clung to John's hand for all the life he had.

After being led into the DI's office, Sherlock was sat down on one of the two beaten sponge chairs. It had taken a good while to calm him down. John crouched before him at one knee; Greg at the other, Sherlock continued to snivel fittingly into his hands. The pair endlessly tried to sooth and consoled the broken detective. It would have helped, had they known the true reason of his distress.

Sherlock, bundled in the steadily growing recess of his coat, could see no way out. His brother was back from the dead, and had now roped and knotted him into bringing about the demise of his tyrannical father. His other brother was now beaten into submission, hiding himself away in his parliamentary work. Before him, two friends whom he loved but could never tell. The relief of finally letting go of one secret lasting only seconds before another one was imbued upon him. How did he ever, ever get induced in this state? Not even six months ago, his life was, in his mind, definably perfect. Everything that had ever gone wrong was finally purged away and he was somewhere, deep down, truly happy.

Somewhere in the midst of his despair, Sherlock was aware of somebody leaving the room. He guessed it was Lestrade because the hand on the top of his head felt like John's. He was vaguely aware a few minutes later of a warm mug being pushed into his hands. It wasn't until the low hum of the Inspector's voice reaching his ears though that the detective had realised he'd stopped crying. First, the drawling of a long list of police procedures, which of course everyone in the room was familiar with by now. Then his lips began formulating the long list of 'incidences'. Incidences …This was formal law talk for "John, Molly and I have noticed X number of bruises to your face in the past five months." Every bruise, every mark. At least they think every. Sherlock dare not tell them about the ones they didn't notice, the ones he took extra precaution to hide. It would only melt their sorrows further. The list was devastatingly long for them already. They'd surely break if they thought there was anymore.

Sherlock listened absently to the string of accusations against him being read from two and a half bits of paper. The act was so pedestrian to him it seemed almost dull.

"Two incidences of the breaking of the left wrist. One being the original incident, the second being a few days later, breaking of the same fracture."

You could hear the grimace in the Inspector's voice as he read. John could feel a cluster of terror-stricken butterflies battering the inside of his stomach. It sounded so much worse out loud. It must have been agony… John tries to make eye contact with his detective but Sherlock continued to stare blankly out of the expansive rain streaked window behind the inspector.

"Seven accounts of bruising to the neck. Three accounts of a cut to the face. Two accounts of a bruise to the face. One account of suspected concussion. Four accounts of suspected injury to the ribs or intercostal muscles. One confirmed. The beginning of a bruise to the hip-"

Sherlock's head suddenly snapped towards the doctor. "What?"

John looked at the detective sheepishly. "Sorry. It's just when we found you, tonight, I noticed - I - when I tried to hold you still, ground you from what was happening in your head, you pulled away and I saw-"

"That could have been from anything." Sherlock protested.

"Yes, your right, Sherlock. It could have been anything. But as a doctor I'd place the age of the bruise as nine to twelve hours old. Ten hours ago I returned to the flat to find your brother unconscious and you displaying signs of memory loss and shock. I made an educated leap that something had happened before I got home."

"Did something happen?" Lestrade interjected.

"No."

The Inspector leaned forward in his black leather office chair pointing his pen at the detective's face. "Ah-no, answered too quick. We're not doing lies tonight."

"It's not a lie!" Sherlock exclaimed, leaning equally as far forward. "I don't know what happened."

"But you think something did?" John questioned lightly, trying to defuse the growing tension between the pair.

Sherlock looked down at his interlocked fingers. "I don't know what happened..." He untangled his hand from John's. "I don't remember anything."

"But there's something, isn't there?" John pushed. "I can see it in your face. What is it?"

Sherlock shook his head. "My father was there. That's all I know."

John observed how the detective recoiled in his seat, almost as if he was trying to distance himself from something. "It's more than that. There's something that's really troubling you. What is it?"

Sherlock paused for a moment. "...It's nothing."

John looked as him, knowing instinctively that something wasn't right. "What was it, Sherlock? You can trust me."

"It's nothing, John. This whole situation it just... It's just making me feel uneasy."

Greg looked from John to the detective and back again. He wasn't going to get anywhere tonight. He sighed, abandoning his pen to the desk top. "Go home. You're too worked up to function at the level I need you to. We'll continue this once this pressing case is over."

Sherlock immediately got up out of his seat, heading for the door. He stopped, however, when he hear his name being called from behind the desk. He pivoted on his heals to look at the inspector. "What?"

Greg frowned at the detective disapprovingly but knew he wasn't going to get a better response. "Don't you ever hide anything from me again."

The disappointment in his voice caught John off guard.

Greg called his consultant's name again as he turned away from him. "I mean it, Sherlock. You've betrayed my trust and if you ever, ever lie to me from this moment on, you'll never work for my service again. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal." The detective said coldly. With that, he turned, leaving the dim lit office.

John turned to Greg apologetically. "I'm sorry – about all this."

"You can't blame a guy for struggling, John. Sherlock Holmes could bring the toughest of men to their knees in tears, and that includes himself."

John's eyebrow jumped in agreement. "Do you think he's going to be okay tonight?"

"I think he'll be unstable. Possibly reserved if his sense of shame gets the better of him. But look at him." Greg nodded to the shrinking image of the detective, weaving his way through the maze desks out of the office. "His dead tired. Can't even walk in a correct line. Just hang back and keep an eye on him until sleep gets him."

John gave a small nod amidst his thoughts. "Okay… Goodnight, Greg."

Sherlock walked alone in long strides down the wide, vinyl corridors towards the foyer of Scotland Yard. The only source of light was the dim green glow of the occasional fire exit sign. It was strangely mild in the corridors. Looks like they finally got round to turning the heating on for the winter. It didn't make the consultant feel any warmer inside though. He felt cold and empty. He stopped beside a large double paned window. Up on the fifth floor, you sat just above the line of general building height. Every rooftop was visible. The amber glow of life; the glittering foot lights; they all seemed to shine that little bit brighter in the rain. The city looked like a bundle of fairy light, deposited on the floor of a dark room. It was the only thing that never failed to kindle a single moment of love within the chemist. London was the soul dampened spark left within his heart.

Lost in his saddened admiration, he'd neglected to notice the person standing behind his right shoulder. When he caught the figure out of the corner of his eye, the fondness dropped from his face. "Go away, John. I don't need you hanging around me like a blood thirsty nat."

He was surprised to find a woman's voice replying.

"Gosh, it's true; he's deductive skills really have gone to pieces."

Sherlock turned to see Donovan looking sceptically at him. She had a hand extended at waist height, in it, the detective's navy blue scarf. Sherlock looked down at it, puzzled. "How did you-"

"The boss gave it to me to wash seen as he doesn't have a washing machine of his own. Thought you might need it back on a night like this."

Sherlock reached out for it with a sense of mild shock.

"You're welcome, Freak."

A weak smile came to the detective's lips. "Thank you." He wrapped the scarf around his neck in his customary fashion. He turned to leave but was stopped by Sally's voice again. "Depression can be a bitch."

He turned to look at her but no words came to his lips. He watched as the forensic assistant walked toward him. Her toes came to a stop by his. "I know. I had it for a year and a half when I was eighteen after my parents' divorced." She picked up the detective's hands turning them over in her own so they were palm upwards. "But don't do that to yourself."

Sherlock was suddenly aware of how exposed he was. He pulled away, embarrassed, hiding his hands into his sleeves. "Who, who told you?"

"No one told me, Sherlock. But there aren't many ways a person will lose that much blood so quickly they end up in a hospital."

Sherlock's chin dropped to his chest. "It was an accident with an experiment." He mumbled.

"Looks it." Sally said unconvincingly.

Sherlock pivoted walking hastily away from the police office.

"We're all on your side, you know." She called.

The detective stopped again. He turned towards the officer slowly. "You…you are?"

"Of course we are." She said with blazé attitude. "We'd all be chasing dead ends if we didn't have you. So if you wouldn't pop your own clogs we'd appreciate it."

Sherlock smiled, genuinely this time. "I'll keep that in mind."

Sally smirked with a shake of her head, tight caramel curls bouncing on her head. "You're one of a kind you are... Sherlock, whoever made you want to do that to yourself…They're not deserving of you. And if your own self-hate got you there…then you're truly blind to what you are…"

Sherlock blinked, astounded at the detective. "I… I have to go."

He sped away down the gloomy shadowed corridor. He turned back, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Um… Goodnight."

And with that, he turned away again and was gone for good.

* * *

 _ **Review? Or, if you're reading this after Janunary 1st, EXASPERATED SHERLOCK OBSESSION SESSION?!**_

 _ **\- REVIEWS Responses! -**_

paula. - Firstly, Thank you for the Christmas wish! Mine was actually terrible but I hope yours was magical :) Secondly, like a John Le Carré novel, it will all make resolve itself in the end. I think maybe Sherrinford's deluded. Or maybe he knows something we don't? Seen something in Sherlock that we've all overlooked. He knows the full story. We don't. Happy New Year, Lovely! x

0ayumi0 - I hoped you'd be pleased. I think Lestrade is a little too obsessed but then he was with the detective at his absolute lowest when he was no more than a student. He knows what nobody else knows; Sherlock's true capabilities.

OneImportantNobody - Right, I adore your username! It is so whimsically paradoxical, I love it! *Clears throat* Anyway, thank you for such a lovely comment! You did not sound lame at all! That's usually me aha. I felt there was something different about the formatting. I'm glad it worked well for you. I rarely get semi-cap-locked reviews. It was very exciting! Thank you so much :D

Rockelgriffiths14 - It will be sooner new time, I promise. After we've recovered from The Six Thatchers, yeah? haha Thank you for reviewing!

 **Lisa Smithers -** Thank you! I never really considered my writing capable of doing that so I'm really pleased to hear that my writing's finally drawn somebody in! I hope this chapter was okay :)


	26. It's All In Your Head

**_NOTICE: The chapter will be confusing at first but stick with it! It will prevail in the end!_**

 ** _Sorry it's been a few weeks. I've been busy with my other story which I know some of you have been reading. Thank you btw ;) I have had a plentiful flow of ideas but no of them until now have felt right to me. I've been struggling to come to terms, an understanding, of what the show is now. As a collective and to myself personally. I won't talk about series 4 as I'm still undecided on how I feel but of course if any of you want to strike a conversation over DM I'll happily reply. Anyway, here's a longer chapter for you all. Nothing to danger zone-y for any of you but there are references to bit-not-good things that might trigger some among you so as ever proceed with caution. X_**

* * *

It wasn't until I felt the unsuitably weighted hand of Death upon my shoulder that I realised I had even been dreaming. The weight of Death's hand was something I'd grown accustom to. It had lingered by me in youth and had only taken a temporary leave of absence before returning to me.

He spoke to me – Death - his words whispering coolly in my ear.

"It's okay that you went to the police." He said.

I cringed, every hair standing on end. I felt his hand glide my face, long padded thumb brushing my now icy, pale lips…Then something softer, and more putrid. It pulled away from me slightly but still breathed close to me.

"The police are probably more understanding than that conservative brother of yours." He continued.

My legs are going weak.

"-Because that's all you need, isn't it, Sherly – Understanding?"

I feel a pinch, a sharp scratch in the web of my index finger. I don't pull back despite my alarm. Deep down I know this is what I want.

All is still for a moment then there's a wet peck at my already dampened cheek then a set of well-modulated footsteps dulling to a silence away from me.

I can taste coffee in my mouth. It's horrible. It makes me feel nauseous. I'm certain I'm going to be sick. All I can hear is splatter and click of the weighted rain drops as they hit the pavement beneath my feet. They are the only company I have – for a while at least. I'm not sure how long I am stood like this but I eventually hear tentative footsteps from behind me.

They are different from Death's - more certain.

I finally allow my aching legs to give out on me. The last thing I'm truly aware of is a pair of strong arms wrapped tenderly around my shoulders.

...

Sherlock removed his coat, folding it lengthways before throwing it on the back of John's armchair. He reached across to the book case, tapping on a light. The incandescent was small; most of the cluttered room remained in shadow, bar the corner by the fireplace. The detective tried not to give any indication of his anxiety as he heard the doctor's footfall complete the seventeen steps to the first floor landing. Busying himself, he picked up the nearest of eight laptops littered around the room, not bothering to see who it belonged to. He'd soon know when he went to type in the password.

The consultant crossed to the two desks between the curtained windows. He pushed the piled case notes to the side with his free hand, one stack spilling from his own desk onto the doctor's. John watched the detective inconspicuously as he tossed his keys with arustic clatter to the kitchen table. He pulled his gaze away with a sigh, scrubbing a hand across his face. "I don't know where to begin..." He said disheartedly.

"Don't begin then." Sherlock mumbled. He glanced once, twice at his violin. "Best not talk at all." He went to reach for another folder but saw the violin from the corner of his eye once again. Conceding to the more preferable distraction, he picked up the instrument and began fiddling with the tuning pegs.

"I don't want you playing that." John said flatly, using the toe of one shoe to slip off the other.

Sherlock looked up, disgruntled. "Why?"

"Because I don't know how hurt you are."

"Well, it will cure one pain." Muttered the detective, tucking the instrument beneath his chin.

John turned, mid-way from removing his jacket. "And what the hell am I supposed to say, Sherlock, to that?"

The detective twisted his upper body in fleeting response to the doctor. "Nothing...You say nothing." He picked up the bow, drawing tension into the strings.

John shook his head. "No. That is not what I say. I don't think you realise how big of a deal this is for me, Sherlock."

Sherlock suddenly snapped, face contorted, voice venomous and bitter. "And I don't think you realise how big of a deal it is for me to tell someone!" He brought both sections of his instrument down to his sides, clutched in balled fists. "I've never told anyone." He looked at John emptily from across the room. "I've not even discussed it with Lestrade. He's just filled in his own gaps by flirting with my brother."

John blinked at him not saying a word. This only spiked Sherlock's fury.

"What do you want me to say?!" The words came out more imploring than scathing. "I don't understand what you want me to say!"

John felt his chest go tight on hearing the brittleness of his detective's voice. It was like a balloon had been crammed into his chest beside his lungs, not allowing him to breathe out. He shook his head. "I don't know." He whispered.

Sherlock gave an irritated cry throwing his violin into his armchair. John winced at the clatter of Sherlock's treasured instrument. The doctor crossed the room in four strides. He clasped the consultant's wrists together, his other arm coming up around the back of the detective's neck, pulling him forward. "Calm down." He whispered. His hand came up gently caressing the curls on the back of the detective's head. "That instrument is precious to you. You'll never forgive yourself if you break it."

Sherlock's head descended on the doctor's shoulder with a shaky out breath. "Just make it stop."

"What?" Came John's hushed reply.

"My head," Sherlock whimpered. "I need it to stop."

John pulled away slightly, looking at the detective's broken face with devoted empathy. "Why all these tears - Hmm...? It's so unlike you. What's been going on?"

"I-I-I don't know." The detective stuttered. "I can't seem to stop myself. I think I'm alright but then I find myself breaking down again." The words quivered achingly out of Sherlock's mouth. John felt tears prickling at the edge of his own eyes. He rubbed a soothing hand across the detective's back, trying to re-assure himself as much as his friend. "It's alright." He hummed. "It's alright."

Sherlock's knees began to fold beneath him. "I can't do this anymore."

John immediately lowered himself to the increasingly threadbare carpet. "No, Sherlock. I'm not going to let you get this bad. You're going to get up, with me, and then we're going to have some tea."

Sherlock shook his head. "I can't."

"Because right now, it feels like you can't even move. Well, in fifteen minutes, you're going to realise you can do the impossible. _–Sherlock?"_

…

Sherlock removed his coat, folding it lengthways before throwing it on the back of John's armchair. He reached across to the book case, tapping on a light. The incandescent was small; most of the cluttered room remained in shadow, bar the corner by the fireplace. The detective tried not to give any indication of his anxiety as he heard the doctor's footfall complete the seventeen steps to the first floor landing. Busying himself, he picked up the nearest of eight laptops littered around the room, not bothering to see who it belonged to. He'd soon know when he went to type in the password.

The consultant crossed to the two desks between the curtained windows. He pushed the piled case notes to the side with his free hand, one stack spilling from his own desk onto the doctor's. John watched the detective inconspicuously as he tossed his keys with a rustic clatter to the kitchen table. He pulled his gaze away with a sigh, scrubbing a hand across his face. "I don't know where to begin..." He said disheartedly.

Sherlock gazed over _The Great Wave_ of brown envelopes, picking up one file before tossing it aside again warrantlessly. He drew himself up with a breath before turning and striding across the room. "I'm going for a shower."

John watched as the detective swooped past his shoulder into the kitchen. "Sherlock, please don't try and avoid this."

"Avoiding? I'm not avoiding." He said flatly, not stopping to heed to the doctor's want of attention. "Stop being finickity."

John closed his eyes, sighing as he heard the bathroom door slam shut. He stood in the heavy silence of the flat for a moment before crossing the living room to the detective's desk. His eyes perused over the amalgamation of case notes and pastel coloured cardboard folders. He reached for the file Sherlock had momentarily thrown aside. Opening the cover page the doctor's eyes were immediately drawn to the cause of death. He snapped the record shut again. He tilled his head back, looking to the ceiling apprehensively. "Sherlock…"

The name caught in his throat so he tried again, louder this time. " _Sherlock…"_

The bathroom door jarred open. Sherlock's head emerged in the gap. "God, what, John?!"

The doctor looked to the detective, to the damp curls fallen across his face. "When you're done, I want you to tell me everything you know about the year 1533."

The detective frowned to himself, bemused by the doctor's request. "O-kay..." With that he slammed the door again.

The consultant mumbled the date under his breath as he nudged the pile of laundry on the floor out of the way with his foot. "1533..." He crossed to the bath tub, turning both taps for the shower. He didn't hang around in pulling off his grubby pyjamas and projecting them to the corner of the room. He could already feel the freezing winter air that has wormed its way through the splinted weather beaten window begin to grapple at his bare skin. It was with a swath of almost scolding relief that he stepped into the warming jet of steaming water.

His routine when showering was systematic. Beginning with his head and transitioning down to his toes, Sherlock was almost entirely in auto-pilot. The majority of his conscious brain was pre-occupied with wandering his mind palace. The only fragments of smoky reality that met the detective's reckoning was the _clink_ of grit hitting the bottom of the white, vinyl tub as he scraped his hand through his mattered curls.

The search for events, objects and people that pertained in any way to the date specified to Sherlock by the doctor was not overly complex. The information was stored on the typical rhyme scheme of a John Donne poem. There wasn't a lot on the year, and anything that did happen was hardly of a formidable nature, at least, not in this day and age. Henry VIII married Anne Boleyn and Queen Elizabeth I was born. There was a new Archbishop of Canterbury appointed. The principles of Triangulation were first established…

Sherlock estimated around fifteen minutes had passed by the time he had collected a satisfiable amount of data on the year. The water was now running a degree colder than when the detective had first stepped into the shower and it was beginning to make him shiver. Squeezing the water from his hair, Sherlock closed the taps and hopped out onto the bathroom floor. He extended an arm towards the radiator plucking off a towel. He was thankful to find it warm. Quickly dragging the rough fabric across his torso, the consultant wrapped the towel around his waist. He stepped through to his bedroom. He reached for a clean shirt folded on his bed, then for his blazer but quickly changed his mind, opting for the navy blue knitted jumper in his wardrobe instead. Finishing drying, he dressed in the clothes he found, starting with his boxers and ending with a pair of socks. He took a moment to gaze out of the window between the gap in his crimson curtains.

The twilight of dawn was beginning to seep through the ununiformed roots of the city, capering on the far reaching glassy spires. It wasn't a warm light. It was pale with a prominent grey undertone. It was not the kind of light that was evoked to embrace the new day but rather a crawling, sluggish light that only served to drag the living to work and put them to bed again. Monotony… Sherlock neglected the idea of reflecting on rest. The last time he'd slept was certainly a distant memory. Who knows how long he'd been awake now?

He reached down for the now damp towel on the floor and trod back into the bathroom. He placed it on the rack he had removed it from before turning back to the door. Just as he was about to leave, he caught his reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror. He looked away, shame coiling like a slimy, muscle heavy snake in his stomach. He raised a hand to his face. The rough scrape of stubble met his soft palm. The anger he felt blossomed once again.

With gritted teeth, Sherlock stomped over to the sink, picking up a razor. Whether it was his or John's he couldn't care less. Splashing cold water on his face, he began to drag the sharp metal across his skin, not even bothering with the malarkey of shaving foam. There was no form or technique employed here. Sherlock was just mindlessly attacking the bristles surfacing along his cheek bones. His irritation morphed angrily into frustration as his hand tremored intermittently. Ever since his father broke his wrist, one of his nerves had become restricted in his joint. Whenever he turned his hand to the right too much it would shake uncontrollably as the motor neuron pathway was repeatedly connected and intercepted.

 _Why?! Why was it always the transport that had to betray him?!_

He threw the razor into the sink with a growl. When he caught the reflection of himself in the mirror again, that was it.

John mid-way through tidying up the kitchen when he heard the high-pitched tumble of shattering glass. The sound shocked him so that he nearly dropped the stack of plates in his hands.

"SHERLOCK?!"

The doctor quickly slid the ceramics onto the still half cluttered kitchen table, dashing for the hallway. He hopped to a stop in front of the bathroom door, pressing his ear to the wood. "Sherlock, are you okay?"

There was no response. The doctor was grateful to find the door unlocked. He pushed the door open to see Sherlock leaning over the sink, hands gripping either side of the porcelain fiercely. The sight of the shards of mirror scattered on the neoprene floor and Sherlock's bloody right hand did not, by any stretch of the imagination, cause John difficulty in making an educated leap.

"What happened?" He whispered, still looking concernedly at the pale detective. The chemist did not give any indication of having heard his flatmate, staring sightlessly at an insignificant spot on the off-white wall. John took a step forward. He could hear the detective's breaths being drawn harshly through his nose.

He took another step forward. "Sherlock…? Are you alright?"

This time the detective gave a slow, short nod. John watched his expression carefully as he reached forward for Sherlock's arms. He gently picked them up, drawing them away from the sink. He slowly led the detective to the edge of the bath tub, sitting him down. Grabbing the mini-first aid kit, John silently began attending to the numerous numbers of splices to his knuckles and fingers. Neither said a word for several minutes, just sat in stark silence in the cold amphibian damp of the steamy bathroom.

"I don't think I can live like this. _– Sherlock?"_

…

Sherlock removed his coat, folding it lengthways before throwing it on the back of John's armchair. He reached across to the book case, tapping on a light. The incandescent was small; most of the cluttered room remained in shadow, bar the corner by the fireplace. The detective tried not to give any indication of his anxiety as he heard the doctor's footfall complete the seventeen steps to the first floor landing. Busying himself, he picked up the nearest of eight laptops littered around the room, not bothering to see who it belonged to. He'd soon know when he went to type in the password.

The consultant crossed to the two desks between the curtained windows. He pushed the piled case notes to the side with his free hand, one stack spilling from his own desk onto the doctor's. John watched the detective inconspicuously as he tossed his keys with a rustic clatter to the kitchen table. He pulled his gaze away with a sigh, scrubbing a hand across his face. "I don't know where to begin..." He said disheartedly.

"Begin?" Sherlock said callously, picking up a stack of case notes and crossing the room. "We don't begin. We end. We don't talk about this again."

"Sherlock, you wanted my help and I'm going to give it to you. Why are you being frosty?"

" _Frosty?"_ Sherlock spat, stopping mid-pace.

"Alright, why are you suddenly closing me out again?! I thought we were finally getting somewhere."

"Getting somewhere?-Ha!" Sherlock threw his head back, slamming the files down onto the kitchen table. "Don't make me laugh!"

John fists balled at his sides. "Knock it off, it's not gonna work." He tone was low and dangerous.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Knock what off?" He began to walk towards his bedroom but the doctor intercepted him, slamming his hand down on the table top, causing a tea-spoon to jump with a rattle. "Is this what you're afraid of?" He said with contrasting meekness.

"Is what I'm afraid of?" The detective's tone was still un-submissively abrasive.

"Losing me? Losing me because of this?"

The consultant was taken aback by this. "…I never said that to you."

"Sherlock, I've said, 'I don't know where to begin' three times already. _You're_ the one who doesn't know where to begin, that's why you keep getting angry. This whole situation is in your head. You're walking through all the possible scenarios that could occur once you get back to the flat."

"…We're in the flat." Sherlock said fearfully.

"No. You're in the middle of the street. I'm back in Scotland Yard with Greg. You haven't _got home_ yet. _– Sherlock?"_

…

Sherlock removed his coat, folding it lengthways before throwing it on the back of John's armchair. He reached across to the book case, tapping on a light. The incandescent was small; most of the cluttered room remained in shadow, bar the corner by the fireplace. The detective tried not to give any indication of his anxiety as he heard the doctor's footfall complete the seventeen steps to the first floor landing. Busying himself, he picked up the nearest of eight laptops littered around the room, not bothering to see who it belonged to. He'd soon know when he went to type in the password.

The consultant crossed to the two desks between the curtained windows. He pushed the piled case notes to the side with his free hand, one stack spilling from his own desk onto the doctor's. John watched the detective inconspicuously as he tossed his keys with a rustic clatter to the kitchen table. He pulled his gaze away with a sigh, scrubbing a hand across his face. "I don't know where to begin..." He said disheartedly.

The detective looked up from the desk, gazing up at the doctor through his fringe. "Please, don't say anything."

"I need to say something, Sherlock because I don't think I can do this."

" _John-_ "

"No, Sherlock! I don't know what the hell I've just walked into! You need to do some explaining."

Sherlock took a pleading step forward, hand rising from his side. "I…I can't I-"

"You know, you make _so_ much sense now!"

Sherlock blinked, mouth opening but no words coming out.

John smirked shaking his head. "This. This is all just so you. You're life-just one big, Shakespeare play; one big South Bank drama."

"John, I-"

"All your weird behaviours, not sleeping, flinching away from people, being cold-hearted, clinical, self-harming-"

"I never did that…"

" _Please!"_ John spluttered. "Just take a look at your damn arm."

Sherlock looked down to the arm John was referencing to and quickly hid it behind his back.

"You're a freak, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock felt the tears beginning to well in his pond water eyes, a lump growing in his throat. "John, please, I-"

The doctor turned towards the kitchen, striding towards the table picking up his keys.

Sherlock took several hurried steps forward, arms dropping to his sides again. "No, John, wait, where are you going?"

"Anywhere that's away from you."

Sherlock felt his fingers go cold, his voice broken in upset. "Stop, please, you said you'd be there for me, you promised."

The doctor looked blankly at the detective across the threshold. "Promises change."

There was a flurry of footsteps ascending towards the flat. Sherlock appeared to be the only one to hear them though. He looked towards the door expecting to see Mrs. Hudson standing there but was surprised to see John…John striding into the room. He glanced towards the kitchen to see the doctor was still standing beside the table.

 _There were two of them; two doctors._

This new recently arrived Watson was identical in every way to kitchen John although he looked decidedly more worried.

"Sherlock, Sherlock stop this now."

The detective's mouth dropped in shock. "John…There… There are two of you."

The doctor held a steady hand towards his friend. "I know, I know, Sherlock. But none of this is real."

"John-"

"I know you're frightened but you have to understand, Sherlock, I would never say any of that to you. Your behaviours are not weird and I will not abandon you."

"Who are you talking two?"

Sherlock suddenly looked up with a start to the first John, standing in the kitchen. "I-uh-"

"Oh, God, this is what I mean, Sherlock! Why do you have to be such a freak?!"

"Sherlock, look at me."

Sherlock reluctantly dragged his eyes away from real John and onto imaginary John. He looked at the detective with sorrowful eyes. "Sherlock, that's not me, that's not me saying that. That's the anxious, frightened side of your mind. The side that's terrified about what I'm going to say. Believe me when I say it won't be that. I'd never say that because it's not true and you have to snap out of your head because these thoughts are getting worse and worse."

" _Sherlock, what the hell are you looking at?!"_

"Sherlock, focus on me, ignore him, he's a figment of your imagination. You can make him disappear."

" _Sherlock, look at me when I'm talking to you!"_

"Sherlock, breathe."

" _What is the matter with you?!"_

"Sherlock, breathe! You're not breathing!"

" _-Sherlock!"_

…

When John saw Sherlock in the half-light of an amber beamed streetlamp, he immediately knew something wasn't right. The doctor stepped out into the moderate rain fall that now cascaded down upon them both. He attentively observed the detective as he stepped towards him. His shoulders were stooped forward, head bowed low. His face was angled downwards, twisted to one side as if shying away from something. His hands were delved uncharacteristically deep inside his pockets.

He reached out for the detective. "Sherlock…?"

The doctor got no response. He took another tentative step forward but jolted in shock as his friend's legs suddenly gave way beneath him. He leapt forward grasping the detective's shoulders.

"Jesus, Sherlock!"

He carefully descended with his friend to the damp, gritty pavement. The doctor watched apprehensively as the detective blinked heavily, his chin nodding disorientated to his chest. "No, stay awake you."

John, with Sherlock's head cradled in one arm, reached for the detective's wrist with the other. He didn't need to take his pulse to know what was wrong with the detective. Even with no muscle rigidity, Sherlock's hands tremored uncontrollably.

He looked down at the detective. "Sherlock, when was the last time you ate?"

"Tuesday." He whispered breathlessly.

"God sake, you can't keep doing this to yourself." The doctor fished around in his pocket pulling out a pink, finger length, tube. Levering the cap off with his thumb nail, the doctor poured two tablets into the detective's hand. "Come on, we're getting you up and going for breakfast."

"What's these?" he said incoherently.

"It's compact, powdered glucose. I've been carrying them with me ever since you fainted and had a hypo in the summer. Just chew them."

Sherlock did as he was told, then struggled weakly with the doctor from the floor. John looped the detective's arm around his neck and began to walk out into the night.

* * *

 ** _Was that okay? Worth the wait? Feel free to review. I appreciate them as always._**

 ** _\- REVIEW RESPONSE -_**

 ** _Paula -_** _I think Sherrinford is definitely using Sherlock, yes. And what we're seeing may well be the beginning of Sherlock truly snapping. Who knows what the consequences may be...? Thank you for reviewing as ever. :)_

 _ **OneImportantNobody** \- Thank for your kind words. You are most welcome :) How's the excitement now that it's over? How you feeling? _

**Prince Maggie** \- Wow! Such wonderfully, wonderfully kind words. Thank you so so much. You have no idea how re-assuring and uplifting you message was to me. Nothing better than a bit of hard core fangirlling haha ;) Thank you for taking the time to review. I hope this chapter was worth it! x


	27. I Already Have A Reason

_**Hello all. Sorry for the month long wait. I've been tied down with my professional writing as well as film school applications, school, Oxford Uni course, therapy, auditions. It's all been a bit of a roller coaster. Last week things were pretty damn good for once and now everything's been put on hold. I'm desperately going to try and get this down now. It's looking likely I've got cancer and I know I'm not going to be able to write much if my chemo and operations make me feel horrible and obviously I don't want to leave the story for a year or more so I want to get it done. (But I'm not gonna rush it either! Don't worry. I will round up all loose ends.)**_

 _ **This is certainly not the best but I just felt like I needed to do something not work related so here be the chapter. Hopefully another soon. Nothing too triggering but the theme of suicide is underlying.**_

* * *

"Why did you not tell me, Sherlock?"

He didn't sound hurt, or distressed, John. The tone of his voice did not imply anger or hatred. It was milder than that. More compassionate than that. It was melancholic…

"Why do we not do anything?" The detective muttered hobbling beside the Doctor.

John glanced at him from the corner of his eye. "Because we can't be bothered," He said emphatically. "Because we haven't the time or because we're scared." He looked more directly at the detective now. "Which one are you?"

The pair teetered down the street beneath the low, navy blue of dawn. The first cars and buses were beginning to filter into the road system. Their red and white lights cast long shadow across the pavements in the dim early morning light. The world's only Consulting Detective was walking precariously south towards the river, feet wobbling from side to side. Doctor John Watson, his blogger, walked rather more sturdily beside him, an arm around his torso propping him up. He was guiding him to the city's busy heart, Trafalgar Square. Although, not so busy at this time of day. "I'm none of those." The detective responded quietly.

The pair entered the square from the north, beating intermittently down into the right atrium. The column in the centre baring Nelson aloft was illuminated as were the proud protecting lions on each surrounding plinth. It was an ironically relevant image; the faulty hero and his protector. John raised a hand to Sherlock's back sensing him slowing down. "You okay?"

"I'm fine." - His typical generic response.

John looked up at him, holding the detective that bit tighter. "Sherlock…?"

"I'm fine." He repeated. He took another step but tipped sideways. John grabbed him. "No. Okay. That's enough of that." He sat the detective down on the stone steps leading up towards the portrait gallery. He crouched down in front of him a hand on his knee. "Sherlock, follow my finger."

Surprisingly the detective did as asked without question, which was more of an insight into his state than a response test was. "You're reflexes are a little off."

The doctor reached for the detective's writs but Sherlock pulled away looking at him soberly. John caught his eye and immediately dropped his hand. "How do you feel?"

He said quietly, giving the consultant a resolute stare.

"My heart's beating out of my chest. I feel shaky. "

The doctor fished around in his pocket for the tube of glucose tablets. "Here," he said pouring out another two of the dusty pink disks into his hand. "Have some more of these."

Sherlock's hand reached quiveringly out, taking the tablets and popping them into his mouth.

John watched Sherlock carefully. "Something else is wrong." He said softly. "What is it?"

"It's fine. I'm just tired." The detective replied weakly.

John eyed the detective for a moment more before looking across the square towards the Houses of Parliament. "One of our first cases led us here." He said distantly.

"Did it?"

The doctor turned around. He looked down at the detective who looked back at him with an inquisitive expression. He opened his mouth to speak but found himself struck for words. Sherlock frowned. "What…? Have I said something bad?"

John shook his head slowly no longer sure he was awake. "No… No, never mind."

…

John had sat Sherlock down at a table by the wall whilst he had gone to get food for the both of them and it is where the detective's head now lay. The doctor set down two mugs of tea then went away, coming back with two plates. His carried a Full English Breakfast. Sherlock's: a range of fruit and some toast. John slid the detective's plate over to him.

Sherlock rested weakly against the wall. Eyes closed, his eyebrows drawn together. His arms were wrapped around his middle. This had become a normality in the past few month which is why John had almost overlooked it.

"Nauseous?" he asked lightly.

Sherlock gave a tort nod to which John gave him a weak smile. "Thought you might be which is why I got you some green tea instead of Earl Grey."

Sherlock's eyes blinked open. He looked with tired eyes upon the drink before settling further back in his coat, drawing his gaze away.

John's face contorted in worry. Sherlock has always been like this, irritable, sleepy, when exhausted but something was decidedly off and it concerned him a great deal.

"Sherlock, are you sure everything is alright? I just can't help but feel like… like there's something you're not telling me. Like there's something more wrong."

Sherlock's sightline pulled up to meet John's anxious gaze. It looked as if he was going to say something, but he didn't. John stood up, rounding the table, and took the chair beside the detective. Sherlock tried not to let the pain and dismay show on his face as he spied the ex-soldier's masked limp. He angled himself away from John, recoiling even further in on himself. "Don't touch me." He muttered.

John gave a sympathetic lopsided expression. "It's okay." He leaned forward but stopped as the detective started away. "Please." He whispered. The detective's eyes full of apprehension.

John's hands came to rest on the table so as Sherlock could see them. He looked at the detective softly all the while attempting to batter the image of a young, terrified Sherlock form his brain. "Why do you feel the need to hide from me?" He said mildly, trying not to let any of his emotions leak into his voice. "I just want to have a look because they haven't stopped shaking, have they, your hands?" He reached forward but Sherlock yelped, flinching away. John jumped, pushing his chair back, the noise attracting the attention of the waitress behind the bar in the otherwise empty café.

John gave her an uneasy grin trying to indicate that everything was okay and that he wasn't in fact harassing a vulnerable stranger. After she continued about her business of wiping down the counter top, the doctor turned back to the detective.

"I'm sorry." He muttered under his breath. "I'm sorry, I just, I don't, haven't understood just how…how everything has been getting to you – No. I didn't mean that, I just meant… I meant that…Sherlock…" The doctor leaned forward across the table trying to get into the bundled detective's line of sight. He lent down across the surface. "Sherlock, I swear to you, on my life, I will never ever hurt you. I promise you, Sherlock."

"It's okay." He mumbled from somewhere within his folded form. "I know I can be infuriating."

John blinked widely in aghast. "What…?"

"It's okay."

"What, no, Sherlock, look at me."

"No, thank you."

"Sherlock, look at me – now, please."

Sherlock's curl matted head turned towards him. John gazed straight into the detective's pond water eyes, hand stretched across the table towards him. "Sherlock, it is not okay for anyone to hurt you…That doesn't exclude me… and is extended unto you."

Sherlock stooped his head, closing his eyes. John leaned forward, fingers taking the detective's chin. "Sherlock, it is not okay for me to hurt you, physically or emotionally. You have to understand that. And you have to understand that you can't just dispense of yourself like you tried to. "

Sherlock lowered his chin. "Please, don't touch me like that again." He whispered.

John pulled away, heart sinking. "Sorry, I…"

Sherlock suddenly got up, his chair scraping along the ground. He pushed past the Doctor's shoulder. John seized, grasping his shoulder as a momentary shot of hot pain flexed through his never-quite-healed muscles. By the time he looked up, he just caught the tail ends of the detective's Belstaff coat disappearing with the same enraged flick as a dragon's tail through the café door.

The doctor growled, thumping the table. "Damn it!"

He snatched his jacket from the back of his chair, getting up. He pulled it on as he began manoeuvre to his way out.

Outside, the detective thundered down the white, blotted museum steps. John hopped the best he could after him. "Sherlock! Sherlock, please stop! You've haven't-"

Before the doctor could finish his sentence the detective stumbled and was descending towards the stone-cold pavement. John hurried to the top of the stairs. "Sherlock?!"

Sherlock was sprawled out on the floor, trying to push himself up from the ground but his arms were shaking.

"No, no, don't do that!" John cried, jumping forward. "The stitches on your wrists!"

Sherlock pulled back as John tried to help him up. "Stop!"

John froze. The detective doubled over pressing his palms to his ears, squeezing his eyes closed. "Stop! Just stop it! Please, just stop!"

The doctor watched in consternation as his friend folded further and further until his forehead was touching the floor. His loud, commanding voice had dulled to a whisper; the words coming out of his mouth now almost like a prayer. "Just stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop!"

John sat back on his heels. His heart thundered in his chest. Sherlock had never shouted at him like that in his life. He swallowed, his throat having gone dry. "Sherlock…?"

The detective didn't reply.

John carefully lowered himself to the floor beside the detective. "Sherlock…?"

He cautiously reached forward pushing the detective's fringe aside, for a moment not sure he was still conscious. He was...

"Sherlock?"

"It's too much." He sibilated, his breath shaking. "I-I can't-"

John hushed placing a hand on part of the detective's head he could reach without getting too close. "It's alright."

Sherlock's hands slowly slid from his ears coming down to rest over his eyes.

John's heart broke as he heard the detective choke back his emotions.

"You don't have to hide them from me." The Doctor said quietly. "I'm not going to run away from you."

Sherlock turned his head away from the doctor's touch.

It's a hard thing – when warmth and embrace is all you know in comforting a person but the one person you want to comfort most in the world is terrified of touch. You're isolated with no way to bridge the gap between you.

So, what do you do when there's no bridge…?

You have to try and jump.

"Sherlock… I'm going to do a deal with you. If this time tomorrow you decide that being here, on this world, is not meant for you… I'll let you." He felt like the words were trying to choke him from the inside out, trying to silence him from the idiocy coming out of his mouth. "I will let you commit suicide if you still want to when the sun comes up tomorrow. I won't try and stop you or resuscitate you once you done the deed, I will let you do what you need to be free, but in return you have to give me today. You have to give me today to find a way to save you - to save Sherlock Holmes; the World's first and only Consulting Detective."

A sob escaped the detective's lips. "No one can save me." He whimpered.

"But I'm not no-one." John whispered resolutely. "And the man I see in front of me of me is just horribly, horribly lost. He's been lost for a very long time, since childhood, broken into a thousand pieces by a despicable, degenerate monster who beat him, and marred him and mutilated his every understanding until he became a ghost. That ghost fought its way back into the society it had been kept from and made a life for itself. Now that life is viciously being wrenched from you, strangled from you, and you don't think you can hold on any longer because you're barely standing from the last time he tore the world and your rights away from you but Sherlock…" John's hand pressed itself into the detective's tear streaked cheek. "I am going to hold you up."

Sherlock sniffed, blinking back the tears that now saturated his satin eyelashes. "My rights…?" His inflection drew upwards as if he didn't understand.

The ex-soldier shifted his weight down through his feet. He held Sherlock's arm closely, his other hand drifting up to his forehead. He looked intensely into Sherlock's stranded eyes. "Yes, Sherlock. You have rights. You fight for everyone else's every day, for justice every day, but you forget that, in being a member of this race, that those rights are extended on to you, too."

"I don't know how to fight." The consultant sounded almost panicked.

John's hands drew together down the outside of Sherlock's arms, coming to hold his hands. "You've already done the hardest part. You got up from the floor you were put down on."

Sherlock looked down to find that he was standing on his own two-feet; the cold ground that had taken his feet was now beneath his feet. He looked up to John in shock. John smiled, full of pride, at the detective. "Give me a day..." He muttered softly. "A day to find a reason."

John was startled to find Sherlock throwing himself at him. He was almost knocked off balanced as the detective's arms closed tightly around his shoulders. Sherlock buried his face within the curve of the Doctor's neck for all the life he had left in him.

"I already have a reason."

I watched from a distance, this short, military looking man. His face seemed to break, the cry just reaching my ears as he pressed himself into the tall, melancholic figure in front of him. I don't know what the exchange was between the pair. But I know by the way the two melted into each other, gripped each other as if they were each other's only source of life, that not one man had just been saved, but two.

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 _ **Reading that back for however many times. This is probably the worst chapter yet. So sorry.  
Over a hundred reviews and follows now which is just incredible! Thank you all so much! I'm going to get back to you all as I appreciate you all so much but I'm quite tired right now so won't be living the responses below like normal. See you soon. :)**_


	28. The Little Things

**_Hello all, again not the most exciting installment but from the next chapter onward I'm going to be angling towards an end. Rounding up the strings as it were. How this chapter is still enjoyable. Nothing too triggering but mentions of suicide. (Jolly, I know.)_**

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After breakfast, the boys had fallen through the door of 221B and both drifted into a satisfactory sleep, John on the sofa and Sherlock curled tightly in his armchair. Thankfully Sherlock was the one to be claimed by sleep first. The doctor had desperately needed the sleep but wanted to ensure the detective was okay before he let himself rest.

John had also been the first to awake. It was late afternoon when his soft green eyes had blinked open. He smiled warmly to see Sherlock bundled so contently beneath his weighty coat. A clunk in the kitchen caught his attention. He looked up to see bumbling Mrs. Hudson pottering about with the washing up. He struggled into an upright position, pushing himself up from the thin leather sofa. The blanket he'd been curled in still wrapped around his shoulders, the doctor padded into the kitchen with a yawn. The landlady turned around on hearing the footsteps.

"Oh, hello dear, how are you feeling?"

John tugged one of the disparate kitchen chairs out with his toes, slumping down into it. "I'm not sure." He looked across to Sherlock. "I guess I'm alright but I'm not going to be any good until he's okay."

Mrs. Hudson placed a hand on his shoulder. "He'll be fine, John, you'll see."

John looked up at the short woman. He tried to give her a weak smile but the look never really made it to his face. She squeezed his shoulder gently. "At least you got him back." She placed the last couple of mugs back into the nearest cupboard. "Why don't you come down stairs and have a cup of tea? I can see you have something on your mind."

John wordlessly got up, his chair grinding along the floor. He started towards the hallway but stopped, looking across to the detective. Mrs. Hudson appeared at his back. "He'll be fine, John. You're only downstairs."

John ignored the landlady's life-savvy words. He walked across the living room, eventually coming to a stop in front of the detective's chair. He looked down at his mottled, sleepy best friend. He crouched down placing a hand on his head for a moment. The gangly man didn't stir. John reached into the detective's nearest coat pocket. His face fell into a look of resignation as his fingers closed around cold metal. Slowly John pulled the cold, steely object out. He looked at the blade that glinted maniacally at him from his flat palm. His head descended onto the detective's middle momentarily. He let out a long breath before looking up at his flatmate's contrastingly content face.

"John…?" Mrs. Hudson was now walking forward.

John bit into his lip, looking despairingly at the detective. His face crumpled. He lowered his head trying to hide from Mrs. Hudson; from everyone. "This is all my fault," he whispered, voice barely audible.

Mrs. Hudson looked at the blade in dismay. She carefully removed it from John's hand, sliding it back into the detective's pocket. "You need to let him come to you, John. Come on, let's not wake him up. Poor thing is exhausted."

John let himself be helped from the floor. He tried not to keep his eyes on the detective, on the pocket with the slim piece of metal that could rob his friend away from him, but he couldn't help the feeling of panic in his chest. Mrs. Hudson evidently noticed this and reassured him. "You can come back up as soon as you hear him stirring. Just leave him be. He'll be alright."

…

Mrs. Hudson set a steaming mug down in front of the Doctor before placing her own on the stained kitchen table and taking a seat. John was looking out of the kitchen door towards the darkened staircase. He stopped though when he felt Mrs. Hudson's frail hand on top of his.

"He's been through much worse, John."

John looked at her bleakly. "Why? Why did he deserve this? What did he ever do so wrong?"

"He's been dealt all the wrong cards, John." Mrs. Hudson said sympathetically. "He's doing so much better now than he ever did before you."

John snuffed out a laugh, shaking his head. He pressed his warm mug to his palms. "How can that be? This, this is just…"

"What did you want to ask me?"

John looked at the old woman in shock. "How…how did you-"

"Oh, I can see it written all over your face." The woman giggled. "You forget I've been around the block several more times than you. What is it?"

John's fingers twiddled on the handle of the mug. "How did you and Sherlock meet? I know he ensured your husband's murder charge but... what led to that?"

Mrs. Hudson smiled sensing John's nervousness. She'd half expected for his questions to be orientated in that direction.

"I'd not been back in London long. It was a horribly cold wet day in January. I was on Regent Street shopping for a birthday present for my sister. It was late evening, eight-thirty-ish. I was walking down into Oxford Street Underground Station and I just saw this boy huddled on the stairs leading down to the entrance hall. He was so small. Nobody even noticed him. Those that did just passed him by without giving him a second glance. I would have done the same but there was something about him that just seemed different, you know. The poor thing was so distressed. He had bundled himself so tight into this small space, dressed in these dirty tracky bottoms and hoodie – you know, like he does. He had his hands pressed over his ears, like this, and just rocked back and forward. I tried asking him if he was okay but he was so stressed out he just couldn't hear me. I reached into his pocket to find a wallet or something with his name so I could find out who he was. All there was was a scrap of paper with a little note on it."

"Do you remember what the note said?" asked the doctor quietly.

Mrs. Hudson smiled, a little laugh coming to her lips. "I do. I thought it was quite funny, actually. It said, 'Hello. My name is Sherlock Holmes. If you're reading this then you've probably found me having a little bit of a freak out. I experience sensory overload and also have an anxiety disorder which means I do a lot of panicking. To make me feel better I need space and somewhere quiet. Please do not touch me unless you have to. I find this very distressing.' Or it was something like that," said the landlady with a dismissive wave. "There was no address but there was a telephone number."

"Greg's?" John whispered.

"Yes. That police inspector man you both work with. What's his name?"

"Greg." John said again with a little smile.

Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands together. "Yes! That's the one. Anyway, that's who picked up the phone but he said that he was stuck in Edinburgh on training so Sherlock came home and stayed with me for a night. He didn't sleep. He didn't even come in here. He just sat out on the stairs out there all night, the terrified little mite."

John nodded, more to himself than anyone else. "Was he bad then?"

"I could barely get a word out of him. He looked so scared when I gave him tea. I think he thought I was trying to poison him. I thought he was French or Italian or something by his appearance and the way he looked at me when I talked. For a while I didn't think he understood what I was saying."

"How did you get him back here then-if he was so afraid of everything?"

The words sounded foreign coming out of the doctor's mouth.

Sherlock - confident, beautiful Sherlock – terrified of the outer world around him. It just didn't comply with what he knew. It didn't comply at all.

"He spoke on the phone with that inspector friend of yours. Well, he didn't do any of the speaking, he just listened. Anyway, when I offered him my hand, he took it."

Mrs. Hudson looked distantly out of the window as if seeing the memory all over again. "It was actually one of the most courageous things I've seen someone do; to blindly place your full trust in a stranger when you're as vulnerable as that."

John blinked contemplating this… Sherlock really was the very bravest man he'd ever met.

He approached the next question hesitantly. "How…how much do you know about Sherlock's past?"

The landlady frowned. "I don't know really. I know he went to a private school and then went to Cambridge University. He liked to read - although nothing much has changed there."

"-But do you know anything about his parents?" John interrupted.

The women shook her head. "I don't know. I expect they had high ranking jobs to send three boys to a boarding school. But no, he's never spoken about them to me ever."

"Well did anything happen, since you met Sherlock, that make you think something… _off…_ had happened to him as a kid."

Mrs. Hudson shrugged, her fingers nursing her lukewarm mug. "The poor thing used to have terrible nightmares but I never connected it to his upbringing." She paused tapping a finger on her lips. "There was one thing actually." She began.

John sat up straight, leaning forward slightly in the intensity.

"I remember, one day, your inspector friend had brought Sherlock around. The poor thing had been attacked in the street, his hands tied together. The inspector, Gregory, he was carrying Sherlock in his arms. I thought he was asleep but he was just really zoned out. We laid him on the sofa and spent forty-five minutes trying to unpick the strings from his wrists. I was surprised when he didn't cry. He used to cry so often. He never did it in front of me but I knew when he was. Instead he just lay there. Occasionally he muttered a word in reply. But he had this little head twitch that went on for a few hours and then for days he muttered a string of words whilst doing little hand movement. He did that for almost two weeks every time before he did something. – That was a time I did wonder what his childhood was like."

John pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, standing up. "Jesus…That sounds horrific… Like a psychological breakdown. I need to go and check on him."

He turned to leave but was stopped by the landlady's voice.

"John-n, what's got you so worried?"

The doctor pressed his hands into his eyes breathing out heavily. "I don't know. I can't…"

John reside himself knowing he couldn't escape the truth forever. "When me and Sherlock were gone last week, it wasn't a case like I told you. He… he was in a hospital. He'd attempted suicide and it was my fault. He nearly died. He's still in that place and I'm so scared to lose him. I can't. I can't do it."

Mrs. Hudson walks over to the ex-soldier, and placed a tentative hand on top of John's arm. "I know what's been going on John. I know I appear dotty sometimes but I'm not blind. It's not the first time been Sherlock's been like that. He always had trouble with that head of his."

"He's been like this before…" John had heard just about enough. It was absurd. How was Sherlock still here?

"Oh yeah," said the landlady with a nod. "It's the little things. You just notice. He'll just stop eating or I'll see him leave the house and cross the street without looking. You know - the little things."

John shook his head in disbelief. "No. No, he can't…" The words died on the doctor's lips. 'The little things' all started flooding into his mind. All the times he'd refused a cup of tea or toast. The time he walked a bit too close to live train lines. The way he'd always provoke a criminal holding a gun. Even when he'd first met Sherlock:

" _You were going to take the damn pill, weren't you?"_

The signs were always there. He'd just never wanted to believe it.

"Oh my God…" His hands suddenly came to his mouth. He had to force back the tears that were threating to overwhelm him. "Oh my God!"

The doctor suddenly fled out into the hallway and leapt up the stairs in two. He all but ran into the living room. He saw Sherlock standing beside the open window.

His medical brain, finally, after years of suppression, spoke to him.

" _One of the most common signs of suicidal tendencies is reckless behaviour. What's important to remember is the person in question can become desensitised to danger. This is why it is all the more dangerous. In scenarios like these, all that can be done is de-escalate the feelings. Kindness and a sense of belonging are the two best cures."_

When in his episodes of depression, after a case or a monotonous period, Sherlock always went and stood by the open window.

John calmed his nerves the best he could. He crossed the threshold and walked tentatively towards the window. He grabbed a pile of books from the desk and placed them beside the window sill. Carefully, he stepped up onto them. Without a word he threaded his arms through the detective's, hugging him from behind. He rested his cheek between the consultant's shoulder blades. He stood like this for several minutes before he finally spoke.

"Are you okay?" he whispered quietly.

Sherlock was silent for a moment before he spoke. "No..." His baritone voice hummed from deep within his chest.

The doctor unthreaded himself, stepping onto the window sill. He watched forlornly as the detective's gaze fixed on the pavement below. "I can't stop panicking about you. I can't control myself."

Sherlock's mouth formed a thin line. "I shouldn't have told you." He said despondently.

The doctor's hand reached forward, fingers tentatively grappling for the detective's. Sherlock looked down as John took his hand. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"I'm holding your hand." John said simply.

"But…" Sherlock blinked several times before looking up into the doctor's eyes. "But why?"

John looked, gaze unwavering, back at Sherlock. "Because I want you to know that you're not alone."

Sherlock looked back at the hand, still seemingly not understanding.

The doctor looked longingly at the detective for a moment before his face turned grave, gaze turning to between his feet. "Sherlock, I want to begin medicating you."

Sherlock shrunk back. "What?"

John shrugged lightly. "I just think, as your doctor, that you'd benefit from taking some Aripiprazole."

Sherlock stared almost fearfully at the doctor. He looked utterly lost. "…No."

The doctor leant forward, not hearing the detective. "What?"

"No!" Sherlock suddenly shouted. He lunged from the window sill and began heading towards the kitchen, hands pressed upon his ears. John jumped after him. "No, Sherlock, wait!"

By the time the doctor had reached the other side of the room the detective had already disappeared, bedroom door slamming shut.

"Everything okay?"

John turned around to see Greg standing in the kitchen doorway. He let out a pent out breath, pressing the heels of his palms into eyes. "No. I've just cocked up majorly."

Greg frowned. "Why? What's wrong?"

"I've just told Sherlock that I want to start putting him on Aripiprazole."

The Inspector's face screwed up in confusion. "What's that when it's at home?"

"An antipsychotic."

Greg's expression dropped. "He's a chemist, John."

"I know."

"He, unlike your normal patients, knows what the chemical names mean."

"I know."

"John, you've basically just called him crazy!"

" _I know!_ " cried the doctor, despaired. "…I know."

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. "You don't make life easy, do you?"

"I didn't think he'd react like that."

"Why did you even say that?"

"He's mentally unstable, Greg." The doctor suddenly looked to the corridor, aware of the volume of their voices. "He keeps breaking down in tears." He whispered. "He is continually wavering in and out of suicidal. He's no longer in control of himself."

Greg scowled at the doctor. "You've got no idea, John." He shouldered past the medic heading towards Sherlock's bedroom. "I'm getting sick of you. If Sherlock didn't care so deeply about you, there isn't a way in hell I'd let you still be in his life."

John's mouth fell open wordlessly. He watched as the Inspector pressed an ear to Sherlock's bedroom door. He knocked attentively on the wood before entering the room, swiftly shutting the door again, shutting him out. The doctor sank back against the nearest wall. He slipped to the floor, arms pressed to the top of his knees. His head fell to the crook of his elbow with a sob.

 _What was he ever thinking? He could never be in league with someone like Sherlock Holmes. He couldn't deal with his sister's alcoholism; how was ever going to deal with a man's years of psychological abuse and trauma? He was in way over his head. He needed to get out of Sherlock's life. – For good._

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 ** _Will post ASAP! Thank you again for all the wonderful reviews! Much, much appreciated. If you'd like to leave one today I will be grateful as ever :)_**


	29. Why Did I Do That?

**_I must have re-written this chapter about seven times. I just can't seem to find the thing that fits and makes sense. Next chapter will probably come by this weekend coming. It will get more exciting and conclusive from then on in. ENJOY!_**

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 _When Sherlock awoke, every muscle in his body ached. His jaw hurt, and his head throbbed with an intensity that made it spin. It made him feel sick. He tried to open his eyes but found his senses assaulted by a bright, harsh light. He turned his head away, pressing his face into what he assumed to be a pillow beneath his head. What was this? A panic began to wind it's self within him. He pulled the blanket tangled in his fists up to his chin, curling in on himself with a whimper._

 _A gentle yet skeletal hand came to rest within his curls._

" _It's alright, Sherlock. It's okay."_

 _When he breathed in to speak, Sherlock found his mouth to be dry. "My?" He struggled._

" _Yes, it's me. It's alright. I'm here. Just try and get some rest."_

 _Sherlock forced his brother into view threw squinted gaze. He looked exhausted and bedraggled. "My, what's going on?"_

" _Just go back to sleep, Sherlock. Everything is okay."_

" _No… No, adults only say that when everything is not." The teenager tried to push himself up but found himself racked with pain. He yelped, collapsing back to the bed. Mycroft was out of his chair and on his feet in seconds. He grabbed Sherlock's hand, squeezing it tightly. "Stop, please! Please, you'll hurt yourself."_

 _Sherlock couldn't stop the tears from springing to his eyes. "Mycroft, what's happening to me?"_

" _Sherlock, please..." Tears were beginning to slide down the young politician's face too. "Please, just try and sleep."_

 _Panic now firmly in the embrace of confusion, the pair loved endlessly until Sherlock's insides curtailed. "Mike, I'm scared."_

 _Mycroft lent beside the bed, pushing a pale hand through his not-so-little-anymore brother's tangled hair. "I know. I know you are. But I'm here now okay."_

 _Sherlock's voice broke with the emotion constricting his throat. "My, what happened?"_

 _An old man with glasses and a long, white coat swept into the room. Mycroft stood up, bowing his head. The doctor looked straight past the courteous greeting, eyes fixing on benumbed Sherlock. "Good to see you awake, Master Holmes. How are we feeling?"_

 _Sherlock's look paled. The boy tried to meet his brother's gaze but the Mycroft he'd seen a moment ago had vanished. "My…?"he whispered fearfully._

" _You're likely in a little bit of pain." The doctor said, breezing over the young boy's evident distress. "I'm going to give you something for it if that's alright."_

 _Sherlock gave a small, tight shake of his head, still desperately confused. "What is it?"_

 _The doctor began to cross towards Sherlock's bed. "Aripiprazole. It's a pain killer."_

 _Mycroft suddenly looked up. He looked nervously at Sherlock before intercepting the doctor. "This is unreasonable," he whispered into the medic's ear. "You can't give him this without his consent."_

 _The medic looked at Mycroft curiously. "I think I find you wrong, Mr. Holmes, Sherlock can receive any treatment his parents or guardian consent to."_

" _You can't lie to him about what it is!" Mycroft hissed trying to keep voice as low as possible._

" _It's not a lie, Mr. Holmes. It's going to stop his mental pain. Don't you want that?"_

 _Mycroft stuck his chin out in defiance. "You can't lie to him, it's against medical conduct and believe me, with his intellect, he will soon find out."_

 _The doctor looked at him plainly, the darkest of glints in his otherwise feigned open persona. "No, he won't, Mr. Holmes. Be won't even remember he's taken them." The doctor leaned past the young politician looking at grey Sherlock, who was now sat up in the bed. "Say goodbye to your brother now, Sherlock."_

 _Mycroft glared at him. "No, he's allowed an escort."_

 _The doctor's head turned, a low growl coming out from between his lips. "Not if his parents say so."_

 _Two younger men, also in white coats, appeared at the door. The doctor swept past the politician, taking a seat on the end of Sherlock's bed. He pulled two baby pink tablets from his pocket, holding them flat on his palm out to Sherlock. "Here you are. Should sort that headache in a jiffy."_

 _Sherlock cautiously reached forward. Before he took them from the doctor he glanced from the corner of his eye at his brother. Mycroft, as minimally as he could, shook his head._

 _Sherlock pulled away from the doctor. "No, thank you. The pain isn't that bad."_

 _The doctor's teeth gritted. "It will do you the world of good." He smiled with contrasting air._

 _Sherlock sat back. "No. I'm better without them, thank you."_

 _The doctor clicked his finger. The two men at the door began to walk towards Sherlock's bed. Sherlock immediately began to back away with a fragile cry. Mycroft strode to his brother's side. "No, you leave him alone." One of the men seized his upper arm, yanking him forwards. Mycroft yelped. Sherlock suddenly started. "No! Don't do that to him!"_

 _Mycroft fought his way out of the grip that was now squared upon both of his shoulders. "Don't you touch him - Don't you lay a finger on him!"_

 _Sherlock wriggled frenziedly as two remaining doctor's tried to wrestle his limbs to the bed. He tried to reach forward for his brother, fingers stretching after him. "My!"_

 _Mycroft stamped on the toes of his capturer. The politician wrenched an arm free as the man holding him doubled slightly, hissing in pain. They were surprisingly strong despite their thin appearance. Mycroft threw his arm towards his brother, reaching out for him. "Sherlock!"_

 _Sherlock reached even harder, pushing as much of his little weight forward as he could. "Mycroft, what are they going to do?!"_

" _Nothing, Sherlock, I promise!"_

" _Get him out of here!" The doctor growled._

 _A third man entered the room now. He strode straight for Mycroft. Mycroft kicked out as two arms were wrapped around his chest. His attention was caught as Sherlock cried out. The previous doctor holding him had now turned on Sherlock and all three of them were now manhandling him to the mattress._

" _Stop it!" Mycroft exclaimed, once again feverishly fighting his way out of his gripper. "You're hurting him! Stop!"_

" _Mycroft!"_

 _Mycroft tried to rip himself free but cried out with a hideously gasp as a hand was thrust into is auburny curls and yanked sideways. He collapsed in a heap to the floor, pressing his two hands to his head. Sherlock screamed._

 _Everything suddenly stopped. The silence was thick and heavy as the brittle cry of Sherlock's voice dulled to nothing. Only broken by the high pitched, incessant buzz of the strip electric lighting above their heads persisted. This his captor's momentarily caught off guard, Sherlock forced himself away from them and tumbled to the floor. He crawled towards his brother despite his muscle's protestation. He placed a hand on his back. "Mycroft?"_

 _Sherlock looked over the politician's crumped suit. It was torn at the sleeve. His small, spindly fingers reached out for the material, pressing the two bits of material together. He looked sadly upon it as the two pieces fell apart as he let go once again. His attention turned back to his older sibling. "Mycroft…?" Sherlock re-arranged himself on the floor, shuffled protectively close to his brother. Mycroft's forehead was pressed to the floor, his face obscured by his tousled fringe. His palms were pressed to his ears, fingers knotting in his wavy locks. Sherlock lent as near to the politician as possible. He was breathing in quiet, sharp, short breaths. They were erratic. Sherlock immediately understood what was happening. He placed his small, pale hands over his brother's long ones to stop him tugging at his hair. "Shhh…" He whispered. "It's okay. It's just the bad thing. It's not real. Just try and breathe."_

 _Sherlock started as a heavy hand fell upon his shoulder. He looked up to see the doctor staring down at him. The man that had been fighting with Mycroft now bent down towards him. Sherlock tried to reach forward but the hand on his shoulder held him still. "What are you going to do to him?" His voice quivered from his lips fearfully. He watched, panic bounding threw his veins, as the burly man pressed a needle into the side of his brother's neck. He reached forward anxiously as an almost unconscious Mycroft was scooped up from the clean, clinical floor. "We're going to make him all-ll better." The doctor said. His hand raised as Sherlock stood up._

" _But he's not ill…" Sherlock could barely speak as his brother was carried life-less from the room._

 _The doctor twizzled Sherlock round to face him. "Yes, he is." He said sympathetically. He took hold of Sherlock's wrist. "You both are."_

 _Sherlock gasped as two sets of hands suddenly grasped his arms and his legs. He screamed as he was lifted from the floor. He was carried swiftly to the bed, this time firmly pinned to the mattress. Sherlock thrashed trying to free himself. He cried out as the doctor climbed on top of him. "Mycroft! Mycroft, wa-ke up!" His voice disintegrated into a sob as he realised that he was not going to be saved. He looked pleadingly up at the doctor, tears beginning to stream down his face. "Please- please don- do th-is." He whimpered spasmodically. The doctor ignored the child's plea. He pressed a hand into Sherlock's throat. "Now, that's enough of that."_

…

There came a knock at the door. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. He looked up warily from his curled place at the foot of the bed. Greg courted into the dim, dusty room, closing the door behind him. He looked over his consultant. A sympathetic, lopsided expression of concern found a place in his features. "You had a flashback, didn't you?"

Sherlock turned over, pulling the duvet across his head. "Shut up."

"Is that the first?"

"I said shut up!" Sherlock grumbled.

Greg sat down on the bed. "What's happened between you two then?"

"Don't pretend you don't know," came Sherlock's sneering, muffled voice.

The Inspector shrugged. "It's evident enough you had a bit a barmy."

Sherlock threw the covers away, raising his head from the bed. "We did not have ' _a barmy',"_ he said exasperated. "We had a disagreement."

"Which was about?"

Sherlock's head flopped back down. "He thinks I need medication. I don't."

"Don't you?"

"If you're gonna be like that, you can get out."

"Sherlock, mate, John may not have been the most diplomatic but he has your best intentions at heart."

"Ohhh, so you're on his side now, are you?"

"I'm not on anyone's side, Sherlock, but how do you expect us to not act against your wishes if you won't talk to us."

"I did talk to you." The detective said flatly, an arm draped across his face.

"That's not what I mean."

"What do you mean then?" Sherlock snapped, sitting bolt upright.

Greg looked at the detective, remaining silent.

"Well?!" he exclaimed.

Greg drew his hands across his face. "You've told us _part_ of what's going on outside but you've not given a word on what's going on the inside, not in months."

"There's nothing to divulge." Sherlock protested.

"You've got to be bloody kidding me." Greg laughed.

"On the contrary; you're the one that's being funny. There's nothing wrong with me."

"Really? - because I'd gauge you as being in a state of inner turmoil."

"I've hear the BBC are on the lookout for new comedy writers."

"Stop it, Sherlock."

"You should apply."

"If I didn't know how fragile you were I'd slap you right now."

Before Greg had even realised, Sherlock had sprang from the bed and was now almost nose to nose with him. "Go on then, _Inspector_." He hissed under his breath. " _Do it."_

The detective was momentarily taken aback by this but he swallowed his doubts.

"No, none of this 'Inspector' nonsense; you are not isolating yourself from me, not like that." Greg felt mutilated when Sherlock's eyebrow quirked up in reply. "Stop it!" he growled.

Sherlock took another step forward. Greg was now pressed against the door. "Sherlock, I'm warning you."

A smirk peaked at Sherlock's lips. "Are you now? And what are you going to do if I don't listen?"

Greg was lost for words as Sherlock began to untuck the inspector's shirt from his waist band. "Sherlock, what are you going?" The detective's voice was full of trepidation.

"I'm doing what I want, _Inspector."_ Sherlock grabbed to older detective' and threw him to the bedroom floor. He gasped, clutching his elbow as he hit the carpet. _"Christ, Sherlock, what the hel-"_

"-My goodness, do you ever _shut up_?!"

Greg looked up at the detective standing over him. A new found fear settled with him; a concern that rooted and kicked within his very core. "Sherlock, what's he been doing to you…?"

The detective smiled; it was bitter and it was sad. "Nothing new…"

"Sherlock, I don't know what means. We've barely spoken. I only know that whatever he did terrified you enough to run away as a kid. Please, the time to talk about this is now before it gets any worse." Greg shuffled back apprehensively as Sherlock encroached on him. "Talk to me."

Sherlock continued to brush forward, ignoring the detective, a dominion cast in his pale eyes.

"Sherlock, talk to me." The unease in the Inspector's voice was now prevalent. He nearly cried out as Sherlock descended on top of him. "Sherlock, please! I know you're scared. I know you're probably absolutely terrified and you're just trying to find a way to control your emotions so you don't break but this is not it!"

The Inspector couldn't help the small squeak escaping his lips as Sherlock's weight slid from his waist to his hips. The detective lowered himself down over the Inspector's torso, his face so close to Lestrade's his raven curls brushed against his forehead.

"How would you know?" He whispered lightly.

Sherlock pushed himself up from the floor. "Where's John?" He threw the bedroom door open. "-Oh, Doctor Watson!"

Greg found himself startled by the playful, musical tone in the detective's voice. He quickly scrambled from the rough carpet. "No, Sherlock, wait!"

Sherlock breezed down shadowy corridor with the posture of a regency figure. His dressing gown swayed around his ankles with the speed with which he walked. He stopped when he reached the kitchen. His piercing eyes surveyed the expanse. "Where is Doctor Watson?"

John watched Sherlock's feet nervously from his place on the linoleum, watching them step from side to side between the wood of table and chair legs. He held his breath as he saw them transition across the floor.

"Oh, Doctor Watson, what's wrong?"

John looked up to see Sherlock looking down him with a mottled expression of worry on his face. The Doctor flinched away as the detective crouched beside him, placing a hand against his face. "You've been crying." He said, running a thumb across the tear streaking his face. "Here, let me help you with that."

John shrieked as Sherlock's second hand came up to his neck, pulling him from the floor to his feet.

Greg started forward from the kitchen doorway. "Sherlock, leave him alone."

The detective ignored his superior's words, forcing John stumbling backwards into the living room. The doctor fought against the detective's grasp, grappling at his fingers. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock walked John backwards until the back of his thighs collided with the desk, when he then began to push him back onto the table's surface. John pushed against the detective as he tried to snatch a breath. Greg yanked at his consultant's elbow, pulling him away from the doctor. "Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?!" He looked at Sherlock with wide, terrified eyes. Sherlock's expression was taught. No inner emotion seeped into his features.

"Sherlock?" John had pushed himself up from the desk and now moved cautiously towards the detective. "Sherlock, look at me."

Sherlock backed away, his gaze still fixed on the floor. He moved as if to speak but no sound came. He suddenly looked at John, tears brimming in his eyes. "I...I'm-"

John shushed him, "It's okay. It's-"

Sherlock shook his head. "I...I hurt you."

"Sherlock-"

"Me - I hurt you."

"Sherlock, it's al-"

"Why did I do that?"

Greg stepped forward. "You snapped, Sherlock. Something... something inside you, something you saw in your head, it made you snap."

"I...I didn't mean... I-I-I-I, I swear."

"Sherlock, it's...it's okay." He moved again when then detective did not walk towards him but Sherlock backed away again. "How is this okay?!" he cried. John held out a steady a hand as he could manage. "It's okay, and when I say that I mean, I forgive you."

Sherlock hesitated. "You-?"

"Yes." He took the detective's hand, pulling him in close. John pressed his nose into the detective's curls, breathing deep. "Everything's going to be alright," he whispered.

* * *

 ** _Got something to say? Leave me a review or DM me. I have proof read but it's very late here in the UK so if there's anything glaringly bad just let me know. -_** ** _Until the next time..._**

REVIEW RESPONSES

paula. - Thank you for reviewing as ever. I have missed you in my absence. I defiantly want Sherlock to open up to John about how he feels. I think this chapter was the beginning of that and the next chapter he might actually get there. I hope this chapter was okay for you. :)


	30. An Invitation

_**Sorry! Sorry! Health and workload have been lousy, and I must have re-written this chapter about 12 times in my own head and 4 times on paper but here it is. This is going to be the final stretch now. I am aiming to conclude by chapter 36/37-ish. Thank you for keeping the faith. New chapter asap :) - WARNING: Brief mention of suicide.**_

* * *

John closed the front door, the lock clicking shut. His head came to rest against the wood with an out breath. Sherlock stood on the bottom step of the darkened staircase, silent, a finger tapping lightly against the banister. He looked at his doctor through the ratty straggles of his fallen fringe. Even from here he could see the bruises beginning to blossom along his neck. - He'd crossed a line. One that he could not take back.

"I need to go." The detective said beneath his breath.

The doctor opened his eyes. He turned to face the pallor detective. "What are you talking about?"

Sherlock blinked, his voice stammering out of his mouth. "I-I need to go." He repeated. "I can't keep living around you. What I did... I can't let that happen again, John.- Not to you."

"You are not a danger to me, Sherlock." John took a step forward, looking at the detective intently. "If you were a danger, Greg wouldn't have just left. He'd be here watching you with me."

Sherlock to a step down to the floor. "You shouldn't have to watch me," he whispered. Crossing to the Doctor, he took his sleeve and guided him to the hallway mirror. He stood behind the shorter man, turning him by the shoulders to face the glass. "I hurt you, John, in a despicable way; a way that no-one should… I never dreamt that I could-" He swallowed. "I'm him."

"You are not him, Sherlock," John said sternly. "You will never be your father; you were scared, that's all." The doctor took the detective's hand, placing his fingers on his throat. "It's no less than I deserve."

The detective drew away, face solemn. "No."

"Sherlock, I have disregarded your feelings. Pushed you in ways I never should. I clung to you when you needed space and left you alone when I should have been stood right at your side. Worst of all, I ignored your suffering when I knew you needed help. Believe me when I say, I had it coming."

"No. Nobody deserves to be hurt. – Not like that. And not by someone they-"

"Love?" John finished with an upwards inflection. Sherlock looked downwards trying to avoid eye contact. John's fingers reached for the detective's hand. "I've driven you too far into uncertainty. Some part of you felt threatened today and so you lashed out. That's response was monstrously engrained into your psychology as a kid. It's something you can't control or change and it's just something we're going to have to adapt to, learn to recognise, and manage."

Sherlock closed his eyes, guilt beginning to chew up his insides. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry for what I have done to you and sorry for ever bringing this all on you."

"Stop apologising, Sherlock."

"I can't."

John drew the detective in closer, head tilted so that his lips came to rest on Sherlock's ear. His hand was now nestled in his hair, an arm around his fragile shoulders. "There's no need; I've already forgive you."

Sherlock was quiet for a very long time. John pulled away. "Are you okay?" he asked quietly.

Sherlock's gaze was distant, focused on the ground ahead of him. It took a moment but he seemed to surface to the sound of the doctor's voice. "Sorry… I… I was thinking."

"What about?"

"You."

"You were so engrossed in the thought of me you forgot it was me holding you?" John joked.

Sherlock gave a faint smile at the silliness but it soon disappeared into something more sombre. "I feel safe with you, here, in this place, in-"

"221B." John looked Sherlock warmly in the face. "Yeah, me too." A small laugh snuffed out from between his lips. "I'm not sure what my life would be without you."

"You'd both be absolute messes."

John and Sherlock both turned to see Mrs. Hudson leaning against the doorframe leading into her flat, florally arms folded across her chest. "That's not possible though seen as you seem to have a magnetic attraction to my steps." Sherlock smiled, a warmness spreading through his chest. He suddenly leapt forward, tugging the short women into his tight embrace. "I don't think I've ever said thank you to you in my life but I'm saying it now because you saved me, Martha Louise Hudson. You saved my life." Sherlock's words came out in a hurried whisper of breath. The Landlady was taken aback but quickly adjusted herself to her divergent detective. "You're quite welcome, dear." She patted his back fondly. "You can be a rascal sometimes but I wouldn't want anyone else living here and I wouldn't want anyone else to have you."

John sat down on the steps watching the pair, tucking his feet close to him. He really had underestimated over the past few years how strong the people that surrounded him were and how Sherlock Holmes, despite all his previous protestation, was, in fact, the paragon of Shakespearian emotion. If he had a better capacity for understanding people he could probably have been an infamous writer. _J.K Rowling eat your heart out_. But he doesn't and that's okay because that's what makes him an unfathomable intellect and not a stunning writer. That's what makes him Sherlock.

It was then John realised it was not the army that he'd been put on this planet to serve. It was not his sister's alcoholism he'd needed to cull. It wasn't even the people he had and needed to help as a doctor. It was to help Sherlock Holmes communicate – communicate with people in ways he struggles with alone – and that, in that, the world might change and become learned because of it.

When it came to expressing that to him though, the Doctor did not even know where to begin.

John watch as Sherlock squeezed the old women with a smile before removing himself from the embrace. She grinned back at him before stating that she'd "leave them to it" and that she'd be "down here if you need me". The fluttery landlady disappeared into her flat humming, her departure carried by Sherlock's gaze. John waited a moment, watching the tenderness dispel from Sherlock's shoulders: "Can I see it?"

The detective jumped slightly, turning around at the sound of the doctor's voice. "God, I forgot you were there."

"I noticed." John stated plainly. "You are calm when you are alone."

Sherlock squinted at John as if trying find something cryptic in his words but soon relented. "See what?" he said airily.

"The book you kept as a kid."

Sherlock stiffened. "What?"

"Everyone keeps a journal or a diary at some point as a kid. That's basically what our blog is now."

Sherlock's head tilted. "Our blog?"

"My blog, your blog, our blog. The blog about us."

"Me."

"Mostly you."

"Nearly always me."

"Yes, alright, thank you."

Sherlock swayed back on his heels, looking at the doctor from beneath his fringe. "I didn't keep a book."

"You must have written something down."

"I have scores written in "the peak of my madness", as it were, from my very early twenties. But no 'diary' as you put it."

John held up a finger, pausing the conversation. "What was that about?"

Sherlock frowned. "What was what about?"

"No, I'm not being snarky, Sherlock, I'm just asking what happened in your twenties."

Sherlock shrugged walking over to the table beneath the mirror. He picked up a set of keys and twiddled them between his fingers before setting them down again. "Nothing of great significance. I just… lost my mind." There was an element of distance to the detective's demeanour, everything he said came with air of indifference and simplicity.

John stood up, looking at Sherlock's reflection. "I can't imagine that sort of loss of grip in you."

Sherlock's gaze remained fixed on the table beneath his clenched fists. "Well it happened."

John went to speak but halted. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled out the device, looking down at the illuminated screen.

.

Be careful.

MH

.

John gritted his teeth in irritation. _Damn it, Mycroft! Can't you go five minutes without listening in on us?_ He pushed the phone back into his pocket. Looking up, Sherlock was now staring right at him through their mirrored image. He was suddenly hesitant about what he was going to say next. Swallowing, he took a breath. "Why did it happen?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment, his intensity fervid. "I don't know." He let out a sigh closing his eyes. "It was as if one moment I was battling towards the life I wanted, living like one should in society and then, it all just seemed to capitulate… And with it went my mind..."

John had now taken several steps towards the detective. "What happened?" he said attentively.

Sherlock snuffed out a feeble laugh. "Anxiety, in the extreme. I couldn't go out. I'd be confined to my room in my college for days on end. Occasionally one of the masters would knock on the door inquiring after me. Of course, that level of isolation lead to a great, incurable depression. I attempted suicide. One of the deputy head boys of Fitzwilliam College found me bleeding and unconscious in my room after noticing my absence."

"Thank god for that." John interjected with a mutter.

Sherlock cast the doctor a momentary look but did not say anything verbal in response, instead deciding to continue with his story. "This act of course meant I was put on leave from the university and sent back home. Needless to say nothing good came of being there and after three weeks I had fled to London. With rather a lot of… self-medicating, crashing at my brother's flat when I'd gone too far, I returned to Cambridge functioning better than before I had first arrived there. This didn't last long though. Maybe two, three months. Word, of course, had gotten around about what had happened. Some taunted and mocked me whilst others walked on egg shells around me; treating me as if I was braindead or going to shatter into pieces. This isolated me in a different way - within my own head. I barely slept, never ate unless marmite toast was pushed within reach of my hand. I was manic. I'd not bother with lessons, just spend hours in my room devouring book after book on whatever I wanted to know that day. I composed with, what I now understand to be frightening speed, never sitting down at a piano to play what I'd written. Mycroft, had taken my violin away the term before fearing I might sell it to fuel my drug usage so I'd found an alternative. I began to hear them, John, the instruments…It all ended when one of my tutors found me bundled on the carpet of one of the classrooms late at night surrounded by all the sheets I'd written, trying to order something that was order less. I apparently, I was babbling nonsense – I was a gibbering idiot."

"Apparently?"

"I don't have much recollection of that night. I only remember hearing my father's name mentioned and fleeing to London once more. Within a week, I was doped into a state in which I could barely function. Mycroft was certain I was going to die. He called it, 'an incessant revenge mission against myself.'... The months after that are just a big blur of being high, plummeting down again, doing...doing whatever it took to get more, ever more, substance, then pushing the needle into my arm so I could, one more, dance on cloud nine… That's how Greg found me - in this vicarious yo-yo of duopolistic abuse. And, in turn, that's how Mrs. Hudson found me too, although I was quite clean when I met her."

John was silent, looking at Sherlock with a balanced expression of concern and regret. "You're a real page turner, you know that, don't you?"

The detective didn't react to this, gaze still focused on the varnished table top. "I'm disgusting."

John's light tone vanished. He looked fretfully at Sherlock. "Why did you say that-?"

"-You don't know what I've done." Sherlock said instantly. "You don't know what vile, ugly things I have done to stay on this planet. I'm like a parasite: Always morphing, changing, adapting to thrive but at the baseline I'm the same disgusting- disgusting…thing!" Sherlock spat the last word, frustrated, swiping the keys from the counter top.

John watched in dismay as the detective deconstructed himself before his eyes. He daren't speak; but he knew he needed to. His phone buzzed in his pocket again. He looked down at it: Mycroft.

.

John, you're fuelling what could be beginning of a major depressive episode. Renounce your intentions now and distract him.

Mycroft.

.

John snapped. "Mycroft, you're having a bloody laugh! The beginning of a depressive episode?! If you'd payed any actual attention to your brother you would have realised that that episode began months ago when your prick of a father returned into Sherlock's life and began beating him until he broke, daily, so don't start pinning the blame on me. Blame him, or better yet, blame yourself for not telling me!"

Sherlock was now looking at John with wide surprised eyes. He blinked for a moment before a smirk began to tug at the corner of his lips. John burst out laughing, shaking his head. "God, what are we doing?"

Sherlock melted with a look of amusement "Apparently giving my brother a telling off. – _Consider yourself told, Mycroft!"_

"Come on, let's go upstairs and have some bloody tea."

"I concur."

The detective moved swiftly towards the stairs, taking them two at a time. John made to follow but then waited. On hearing Sherlock's footsteps reach the landing above he let out a weighty sigh. Taking a pace forward, he stooped to pick the thrown keys from the floor. He replaced them on the table before looking at himself in the mirror's darkened reflection. He removed the phone from his pocket once more looking at the message he knew was awaiting him.

.

This is his porcelain mask, Doctor Watson. It isn't over yet.

From, Just the Brother.

.

John bit his lip. He looked up to the corner of the hallway to where he knew there was a camera. He sternly replaced his phone back in his pocket. "Stay out of it, Mycroft."

…

When John returned to the kitchen, Sherlock had finished making a pot of tea and was carrying it over to the table towards two awaiting cups. He looked up with a smile. "You okay?"

John snuffed out a laughed. "Me alright? Are you?"

"I'm fine. I just… had a moment. As did _you_ it would appear."

"Yeah, well, he gets on my wick."

"It's alright, we're all entitled to our little moments," said Sherlock filling the cups with the earthy, amber liquid. "Even him."

John raised an eyebrow before taking a seat. He folded his hands on the surface, looking up at the detective. "You don't really think that, though, do you?"

"Think what?" said Sherlock taking a seat himself.

"That you're a parasite? – Disgusting?"

"I'm not proud, John."

"But you're not a criminal, Sherlock."

"I take Class A drugs."

"And as your doctor, need I remind you to knock it off? - If you can find a level of sympathy with a murderer, Sherlock, then, by hell, you can think better of yourself."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose together like the arms of a conductor. "Did you just say, 'by hell'?"

"I did, yes."

"Trying lots of new things today, are we?"

"It passes the time."

"Pretty sure you just told me to 'knock it off', too."

"Pretty sure I'll knock you off if you don't stop talking."

"What does that even mean?"

'I don't know!"

The two suddenly stopped, looking at each other. Sherlock smiled. John smiled back. He raised his mug to his lips, watching the detective over the rim. "Stop grinning at me, you bloody Cheshire cat."

Sherlock mirrored John's actions. "No." He was just about to take a sip when-

" _-Boys?!"_

Sherlock's eyes darted to the door. He frowned at John. The pair got up from their places at the table, crossing the threshold onto the landing.

"Mrs. Hudson?" John called.

'What is it?" Sherlock said, leaning over the banister.

Mrs. Hudson, appeared at the bottom of the stairs, looking fraught. "Boys, there's someone lingering outside the door."

John rolled his eyes, walking from Sherlock's side back towards the kitchen. "Probably just his brother."

Mrs. Hudson flapped her hands insistently. "No, no, it's not Mycroft."

John stopped, shooting the detective a worried look. "Your dad?"

Sherlock bit his lip anxiously. "Maybe." He disappeared into the living room. After a moment, he returned, light on his feet. "I can't see who it is out of the window." He looked back down at the landlady with his piercing crystal eyes. "What did they look like?"

The woman shrugged. "Man. Early twenties? Young. Light ginger hair."

"Not my dad then."

"Client?" John offered.

Sherlock shook his head. "Only one way to find out."

He descended the stairs with rapid enough speed that his dressing gown fluttered out behind him. He reached for the door latch but stopped, fingers hovering in mid-air. He turned to John who was now at the bottom of the stairs standing defensively beside Mrs. Hudson. "Both of you get in the shadows."

The pair shifted. Mrs Hudson retreated to the doorway of her flat whilst John slunk back into the darkness beneath the staircase. With a nod from the ex-soldier, the detective opened the door.

The man was as Mrs. Hudson described; young; ginger hair. He was tall. His pale complexion was flawless, the quality exaggerated by his fresh, timely eyes and perfectly indifferent smile. His dark navy suite, however, gave his whole persona an air of constitutional homonormativity. Sherlock disliked him. The fact that his suit was tailored but forged on common fabric meant economy. It meant institution. Sherlock hated institution.

"Good evening," the youth beamed. "Is this the residence of M.A Chemist Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock looked down his nose at the man. "He's out."

The boy laughed, smoothing his left eyebrow back into place with an index finger. "Ah, Mr. Holmes, I'm merely being polite with formalities." His hand dropped back to his side. "We know who you are. And we know this is two-two-one B Baker Street, so, if you will comply, I suggest you listen."

John gritted his teeth. He went to move from his hiding spot but froze as Sherlock signalled at him from behind his back to hold still. The doctor glanced across to Mrs. Hudson; she was watching Sherlock intently. John turned his gaze back to the youth. He still had the same ambivalent grin on his face as reached forward for Sherlock's sleeve. The soldier felt himself twitch in defence. - _One more move, boyo, and I'll clock you._

Sherlock pulled his arm back from the youth in front of him. "You don't need to look at my arm to know I'm the intermittent junky your employer sent you for."

The youth smirked. "Hmm, quite right…" He looked the detective up and down once more. "He said you'd say that."

Sherlock, exasperated, sighed. "What do you want?!"

"Merely to give you a cordial invitation."

Sherlock looked down at the pearl gold envelope being held flat out to him. He eyed the youth. "Save me the trouble," he growled "and tell me now if you've laced the contents of the envelope with a neurotoxin or hallucinogenic so I don't have to sit there picking at the binding with a pair of tweezers."

The boy blinked, tilting his head sideways. "Why would we do that Mr. Holmes? We want you to come to this event. You're no good if you're dead now, are you?"

"That's a debatable subject. – I'm not in any way supposing you're intending to kill me but I'm quite certain you and your mob waiting a street away would happily drug me up in order to kidnap me for whoever your 'employer' is."

"You have too little faith, Mr. Holmes."

"It's a side effect in my line of work. You learn to take precautions." The detective glared at the youth, waiting for a response. " _Well?_ _Drug or no_?"

The youth now pursed his lips. "No. No drug, or drugs –being the plural. As I said before, we wish your – fully functioning – presence."

Sherlock snatch the envelop from the youth's grasp. "Fine. Now leave. And tell your _employer_ that, in future, if any of his minions even thinks about touching me again, I know a doctor that will be more than happy brake every bone in the perpetrator's anatomy whilst naming them."

John couldn't help but smirk from his place in the corner. You've got to give the detective his due – he could tear down a totalitarian dictatorship into tears if he wanted to. He watched the youth smile once more. – That same insufferable smile. "I'll be sure to pass on the message." He replied airily as if no threat had just been given.

The three of the Baker Street tenants watched the youth walk away from the door, observing his journey from street lamp to lighted streetlamp all the way to the corner where he disappeared.

"What was all that about?" said Mrs. Hudson shuffling back out into the hallway.

"Don't know but he's an arrogant sod." John muttered raising himself from the floor.

Sherlock hummed quietly in agreement. He closed the door before reaching across to the hallway light, flicking it on. He examined the glossy envelope in his hands, sniffing it before handing it to John. "Open it."

John screwed his face up pushing it away. "Trying to poison me now? No thanks."

"It's not poisoned. I just said that to try and throw him off."

"Why don't you open it then?"

"I can't. I've tried."

"What do you mean you can't?"

Sherlock held his hand out slightly at his side. It was shaking badly. John's eyebrows drew together. "Sherlock, are you-"

"-I'm fine. Just open it."

John took the envelope. Turning it over, he found royal blue crest printed on the seal. "What's this?" he asked, pointing at the shield.

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know. I haven't come across it before."

John opened the supposed invitation, pulling out the letter within. The same cerulean blue stamp headed the paper, along with the words. 'Quod Legislatorum.'

"The Lawmakers..." Sherlock translated under his breath.

John's eyes narrowed. "'The Lawmakers'?"

"Oh, I've hear of them," piped Mrs. Hudson. "There this charity group sort of thing." She said flapping a hand around in the air. "They go out into these small countries where there's still dictatorship, you know, where people getting hanged for being gay or teaching a woman to read and stuff like that. They go there and they completely redo the government. They call it – oh what do they call it? – Unification."

"Unification…?" Sherlock eyebrows drew together. It was a term he'd heard before… _But where?_

"Yes. They take all the different ideas of the public and the leaders and put them together to form one."

"It says our presence has been requested," John interrupted. "At a fundraising ball tomorrow night."

"Ours?" The detective leaned over the doctor's shoulder at the letter.

"Yes, ours. Here, look, 'Mr. W. Holmes, we request your presence tomorrow night at Queen's House in Greenwich. There is to be a charity ball in which an influential public figure such, as yourself, would benefit. – Bring that doctor of yours.' Who are these people?"

"I don't know," said the detective quietly. "But they somehow know that Sherlock is not my true first name and somehow know I have more than just a drug habit. But the most important question right now is, what are your dancing skills like?"

* * *

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